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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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FI¥E HUNDRED MAJORITY; 

OE, 


THE DAYS OF TAMMANY. 



NEW YORK: 

G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, 

& 

Association Building, Corner 23d Street and 4th Avenue. 


1872. 


Entered according to act of Congress, in tne year 1872 , by 
G. P. PUTNAM AND SONS, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK FIRST. 

CHAPTER I. 

PAQB 

The boy in trouble 7 

CHAPTER H. 

The boy makes known his resolution 12 

CHAPTER HI. 

The bone in the story 21 

CHAPTER IV. 

Seeking a foothold 23 

CHAPTER V. 

Two politicians 29 

CHAPTER VL 

Only a few friends 38 

CHAPTER VII. 

The party to take care of him 50 

CHAPTER VIH. 

One of the family 65 

CHAPTER IX. 

Our duty to society 58 

CHAPTER X. 

From high to low 62 

CHAPTER XI. 

Where charity led 65 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XH. 

Tom Sponge 72 

CHAPTER XIH. 

The stolen treasure 78 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Poverty’s funeral 83 

CHAPTER XV. 

A short chapter 88 


BOOK SECOND. 

CHAPTER L 


The marrow in the hone 90 

CHAPTER H. 

Tammany 92 

CHAPTER HL 

He must serve 97 

CHAPTER IV. 

The People’s Anti-Tammany and Universal Reform Party 102 

CHAPTER V. 

The photograph 106 

CHAPTER VI. 

Test and counter-test 112 

CHAPTER VTL 

The new departure 117 

CHAPTER VHI. 

Before the battle 

CHAPTER IX. 

The party still to take care of him 12g 

CHAPTER X. 

Conducting a canvass 1^0 


CONTENTS. 


v 


CHAPTER XL 

A flag-presentation 137 

CHAPTER XIL 

The Mohicans 144 

CHAPTER X1H. 

The election 151 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Another photograph , .♦ 159 

CHAPTER XV. 

After the election 162 

CHAPTER XVI. 

How the party took care of him t 170 

CHAPTER XVH. 

In prison 176 

CHAPTER XVIH. 

Another woman 179 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The wedding 182 

CHAPTER XX. 

The trial 186 

I 

CHAPTER XXL 

Conclusion 197 





















FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


BOOK FIRST. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BOY IN TROUBLE. 

“ I knowed the boy would git into 
trouble I” 

“ Then what on arth did you lit 
him go fur?” 

“ He was not my servant — not even 
my son.” 

“ But he wus of your raisin, gin- 
erly speakin.” 

“ Now, Polly, you understand hu- 
man nater well enough, fur you wus 
young once, though you’re no duck- 
lin now — there, don’t frown so — to 
know that young folks is not always 
to be guided by old folks. There 
wus your younger and purtier sister 
Lizzie ” 

“ There you go, Mr. Swartwout, at 
my sex agin. I don’t care if Lizzie 
did run away ; it wus Tom Boden’s 
fault altogether. If he had’nt run 
away with her — and he wus a man 
— she’d never a-thought of such a 
thing.” 

“I’m not raisin that pint now, 
Polly, though I do think your sex 


has the most to answer fur. There 
wus Eve, you know, to begin with. 
It’s of age, not sex, I’m speakin. 
Young heads always think they hold 
more than old ones. That wus Clin- 
ton’s weakness. He wus a good boy, 
and a lovin boy ; and he had a head 
that wus the makin of the smartest 
kind of a man ; but he got that no- 
tion of goin to headquarters, as he 
called New York, into it, and all I 
could say and do, I couldn’t drive it 
out.” 

“ That’s all true enough, Mr. Swart- 
wout ; but yit I can’t help a-thinkin 
it wus mainly your fault. What wus 
it put that notion of goin to York 
into the boy, but your way of flat- 
terin him, an’ tellin him he had a 
head above the common ? No won- 
der he come to think no place out- 
side of York was grand enough fur 
him.” 

“Now, Polly, do have some sense.' 
As fur flatterin the boy, I should like 
to know who wus always pickin out 
wives fur him — tellin him that he 
could marry this one and that one, 
and makin believe that nobody wus 


8 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


too good fur him. If there’s any one 
thing that’s calculated to turn a boy’s 
head, it’s a-thinkin all the girls is in 
love with him. That shoe, I rather 
think, fits your foot.” 

“ I’m not a-goin to deny my share 
of the ’sponsibility, Mr. Swartwout, 
fur we all have our sins to answer 
fur, and I did love Clinton. But 
what I say is, that you’re the one 
that’s most to blame, bein a man 


“There it is agin. The men is 
always to blame. Adam beguiled 
Eve, and Tom Boden, though, gin- 
erly speakin, he hadn’t no more 
spunk than a sheep, ran away with 
your sister Lizzie. Weernen is always 
very innocent when the mischiefs 
done. No, Polly, I wusn’t to blame 
fur Clinton Maintland’s goin to New 
York. I warned him agin it — told 
him there wus more’n enough people 
there already — that a good share of 
them, men and weernen, wusn’t fit 
fur no young man of good morals to 
sociate with, and that I knowed if he 
went he’d git into trouble) The re- 
sponsibility, apart from what the boy 
himself must bear, rests somewhere 
else. Who wus it that wus a-makin 
shirts, and knittin socks, and gittin 
him ready to have his own way, spite 
of me, when I was arguin and fightin 
the battle with the youngster ? An- 
swer me that, will you I” 

Wa’al, you wouldn’t a-had the boy 
go naked, would you? — and I so 
loved Clinton, too. Oh, Mr. Swart- 
wout, I thought you had a heart !” 

Here the woman addressed as 
Polly took refuge in that fortress 
which is always her sex’s surest re- 
source when worsted in the field of 


argument. She began to snivel, at 
the same time covering her face in 
retreat with that shield which woman 
rarely fails to have at command — 
her apron. 

From the tenor and temper of so 
much of the colloquy as has been 
given, the all but irresistible infer- 
ence would be, that the parties to it 
were husband and wife. Such was 
not the case. They were not even, 
as the expression is, so much as “ re- 
lated ” to each other. They were 

but to properly explain requires a 
formal introduction to two persons 
with whom the reader might as well 
at once be made acquainted. 

Martin Swartwout was a bachelor 
— an old bachelor, for he was hard 
on fifty — ■* * comfortable,” as the world 
esteems any man who has enough 
property to make him respected by 
his neighbors and flattered by his 
probable heirs — otherwise a plain 
and simple-hearted, but thrifty, far- 
mer in a Central New York town. 
Polly Brown was a maid — an old 
maid, for she was nearly as venerable 
as her companion in the foregoing 
dialogue — and, moreover, Martin 
Swartwout’s housekeeper. She, too, 
was financially very “ well off,” hav- 
ing always carefully husbanded — 
which she had failed to do for her- 
self — the wages she had received, be- 
yond what was absolutely indispens- 
able expenditure, and was, notwith- 
standing, considerably run to angles 
and wrinkles at the date of her in- 
troduction to the reader, a well-pre- 
served representative of her sex and 
years. The explanation of the free- 
dom of speech she took with her 
employer was that, having been in 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


9 


orphaned childhood adopted and 
“ raised ” by Martin Swartwout’s 
mother, she had virtually grown up 
and lived as one of the family. The 
relation between the two people was 
practically that of brother and sister. 
They might as well have been mar- 
ried, seeing how they lived, was a 
common remark in the neighbor- 
hood, although even the censorious 
world attributed no impropriety to 
their association ; but Martin Swart- 
wout and Polly Brown had always 
thought otherwise. Perhaps it was 
because each had a tongue, and, as 
the reader has had the opportunity 
of seeing, knew how to use it. They 
had their disagreements like other 
people, and Martin Swartwout — in 
reply to a delicate suggestion from 
the Bev. Mr. Goodbody, to whose 
Hock they belonged, and who enjoyed 
the reputation of being something 
of a match-maker, that they would 
do well to become one through his 
instrumentality — did say, that they 
differed quite enough as it was, with- 
out being brought any closer to- 
gether. The truth is, they led some- 
thing of a cat and dog existence — 
the man, who was the best natured 
creature in the world, although given 
to waggery and harmless teasing, 
being the big, playful mastiff, full of 
mischief without malice ; and the 
woman, who was like some others of 
her sex that have passed beyond the 
boundary of the uncertain, his feline 
antipode, ever ready to do battle with 
tooth and claw. 

When his adversary began to cry, 
raising her apron to her face as a 
signal of distress, Martin Swartwout 
was disarmed ; for, notwithstanding 


the woman’s very natural accusation, 
he did, as has already been alleged, 
have a heart. 

“ Wa’al, wa’al,” said he, in a con- 
ciliatory tone, “I wus only jokin. 
There, don’t mind it.” 

“ It’s too solemn an occasion fur 
jokin,” dolefully responded his com- 
panion. “Clinton in trouble, and 
you goin away to that — that dreadful 
York. Oh, dear ! ' Oh, dear !” 

What had before been a snivel 
now broke forth into a downright 
shower of tears, making the man 
still more anxious to allay the tem- 
pest he had raised. 

“ Perhaps it’s not so bad after all,” 
he said, soothingly. “Clinton says 
he hasn’t been doin nothin wrong ; 
and if so, they can’t surely hurt him. 
He says ” 

Here the old gentleman began 
to fumble about his pockets for the 
authoritative evidence of what Clin- 
ton did say, the search resulting in 
the production of a letter, which, 
upon being opened and read, proved 
to be the following : 

New York, November 21th, 18 — 

Dear Uncle Martin : I am in serious 
trouble — you will understand how serious, 
when I inform you that I am in the Tombs 
— the principal prison here — on a charge of 
murder. I will not enter upon the particu- 
lars now, as I write at present merely in 
fulfillment of my promise to you, to let you 
know immediately in case any serious trou- 
ble came upon me. I need hardly add to 
you, who know me so well, that I am 
wholly innocent of any crime. 

Your loving nephew, 

Clinton Maintland. 

“ There, you see, he says he hasn’t 
done nothin wrong, and Clinton’s 
one to be believed.” 


10 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ Of course he’s to be believed.” 

“ Then they can’t surely do any- 
thing to him. ” 

“ I dono. It’s a dreadful, dreadful 
place — York is.” 

And at this reflection the lachry- 
mose storm, which had partially 
cleared away, broke forth again, 
threatening to settle down into a 
regular, monotonous rain. 

“This won’t do,” said the man, 
springing up energetically. “ The 
stage’ll be along in half an hour, and 
at this rate I’ll not be ready. Can’t 
you git me out half a dozen clean 
shirts, as many pair of socks, a hand- 
kercheer or two, and — don’t forgit 
my night-cap, will you ? Hurry, 
now, and put ’em in the varlice, as I 
must take the first stage.” 

' “ What, that soon, Mr. Swartwout ? 
Your clothes ” 

“ All ready, provided you git me 
the shirts and things.” 

And with that the man hurried 
out of the room. It was clear that, 
although a bachelor, he knew some- 
thing of woman’s nature. He doubt- 
less argued that nothing would so 
speedily overcome his companion’s 
despondency as to set her to “ pack- 
ing.” Nor was he mistaken. Slow- 
ly and languidly at first, the woman 
began to select from an old-fashioned 
bureau, before which she had droop- 
ingly knelt, the various garments 
that had been mentioned, running 
her eyes slowly over them between 
the intervals in which she was com- 
pelled to take off her spectacles to 
rub them with her apron. But as 
she discovered button after button 
which she thought needed fastening, 
and every here and there a point 


where a stitch could be supplied to 
advantage, her manner gradually 
changed. Her movements became 
quick and energetic. The moisture 
still stood on her shrivelled cheeks, 
but none any longer came from her 
eyes, although there was a sigh now 
and then ; and by the time Martin 
Swartwout again made his appear- 
ance she was working as busily as 
any girl of sixteen making ready for 
her own wedding trip. 

“ La me ! where on arth did you 
git them clothes ?” 

The old lady held up her hands in 
utter astonishment at the metamor- 
phosis her master had undergone in 
his absence ; for he stood before her 
in habiliments in which she had not 
only never before seen him, but 
which she had never supposed him 
to possess. 

“ Them’s my city suit,” he replied, 
stepping first to one side and then to 
the other, to show his outfit to the 
best advantage ; “ made on purpose 
fur this journey, more’n three years 
ago. You see, when Clinton would 
go to York spite of me, I knowed 
he’d git into trouble sooner or later, 
and so I jist went and ordered them 
clothes to be ready agin the time. 
As I calculated I’d have to appear 
among folks of quality down there, I 
told the tailor to git ’em up accord- 
ing to the very newest style, regard- 
less of expense. So them’s the very 
latest touch.” 

With that the speaker turned a 
complete circle on his heel to exhi- 
bit his wonderful costume to his ad- 
miring companion. The clothes had, 
unquestionably, been constructed ac- 
cording to the newest style at the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


11 


time they were made, having been 
faithfully cut after the last fashion- 
plate received by the country tailor ; 
but the period of three years, although 
but a span in the world’s lifetime, 
often works wonderful revolutions in 
the dominion of dress. The tail of 
the fashionable coat had, in the 
meanwhile, crept up nearly a foot, 
while the collar had suffered propor- 
tionate abbreviation ; and, as for the 
pantaloons, while Martin Swartwout’s 
nether garment tended to rank ex- 
travagance, the latest fashion had 
made them simply a second skin to 
the limb. The appearance of the 
old gentleman, as he thus stood for 
inspection, would have provoked any 
judge of the newest style to laugh- 
ter, but as neither he nor his compa- 
nion was aware of the inconsistency, 
the effect in this case was quite the 
opposite. 

“ There is the stage !” suddenly 
shouted the old man, as the sound 
of approaching wheels was heard 
upon the not very even road in front 
of the house. “ Where’s my varlise ? 
things all packed?” and, upon re- 
ceiving an affirmative response, he 
seized the great carpet-bag — big 
enough for an ordinary family — and 
turned to bid his housekeeper good 
bye. 

“Now Mr. Swartwout,” said she 
anxiously, “ do take care of yourself 
in that — that dreadful place — now 
do !” 

The man’s only response was to 
walk up to her and bestow a ringing 
kiss upon her lips. 

Had she been met with a slap 
direct in the face, she could not 
have been more astonished, and, for 


the moment, more indignant. Years 
had gone by since any one -had pre- 
sumed upon such a liberty with her, 
if, indeed, anybody had ever be- 
fore sought and dared the deed ; 
and certainly as, for Martin Swart- 
wout, he had never, provocative as 
he had always been, attempted the 
like — never. The color mounted to 
her forehead, her eyes snapped ve- 
hemently, and a sharp word would 
unquestionably have been hurled in 
the face of the offender, had not his 
back, as he turned to leave the 
house, before she could command 
her breath, already been towards 
her. Then the thought and sight of 
the man going away to that “ dread- 
ful place,” wrought a sudden revolu- 
tion in her feelings. 

“Oh Mr. Swartwout, you’ve left 
your umbreller!” she exclaimed, as 
her eye at that moment fell upon 
the indispensable article she named, 
which had been overlooked in the 
hurry of the start. 

Sir. Swartwout, arrested by that 
startling reminder, retraced his steps 
at the woman’s call, only to encoun- 
ter a surprise equal to the one he 
had just inflicted. Polly, as he took 
the forgotten article from her hand, 
threw her arms impulsively about 
his neck, and broke out into a great 
sob upon his shoulder. 

“ There, there, that’s a good soul,” 
said he, as soon as he had recovered 
from the shock, gently disengaging 
her arms from about his neck, and 
bringing his lips very near to, if not 
in actual contact with hers in the 
operation. Then he turned and hur- 
ried away. 

“The Lord go with you!” mur- 


12 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


mured the woman, her watery eyes 
following the form of her employer, 
after having first sharply, but vainly, 
looked about her to see if some- 
thing else had not been overlooked. 

And there she stood, wistfully 
straining her sight, until she had 
seen the stage slowly climb the slope, 
and, as it seemed to her at the time, 
very quickly disappear over the sum- 
mit of the nearest hill on the road 
to the railroad depot a few miles off. 

“What a sight of bother them 
boys does make !” she exclaimed 
aloud, wiping her eyes and heaving 
a deep sigh, as she turned into the 
house, “but who’d ever a-thought 
that Clinton wus the one to git into 
trouble ?” 

How Clinton got “into trouble,” 
and what came of it, I shall now 
proceed to relate according to the 
regular order of events. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BOY MAKES KNOWN HIS RESOLUTION. 

“ Mag, I’m going to leave you !” 

The tone in which the words were 
spoken certainly betrayed more of 
exultation than regret. 

“ Going back to school ?” 

“No.” 

“ Where then?” 

“ To New York — to headquarters.” 

“ You ain’t. ” 

The parties to the foregoing dia- 
logue were a young gentleman and 
a young lady by courtesy — in fact, a 
boy and girl. The male, to judge 
from his appearance, could not have 
greatly exceeded eighteen, although 


a well-developed scion of a brawny 
race, as native American husband- 
men generally are ; the female, not 
over fourteen, although she, too, was 
tall and admirably proportioned for 
her age. 

To dispense with all unnecessary 
mystery, I will at once state that 
the senior of the two was that Clin- 
ton Maintland who appears as the 
object of so much solicitude to two 
worthy people in the preceding chap- 
ter. He was the son of Hugh Maint- 
land, an honest, but far from pros- 
perous farmer, as will be readily 
surmised when it is known that he 
was only a “ renter.” He, the father, 
belonged to that most unfortunate 
class of laborers, happily in this 
country not very numerous, who, 
tilling soil which is not their own, 
give largely of the sweat of their 
faces to provide bread for such as 
are not of their blood, to eat. 

Hugh Maintland had once been 
better off. A good many years be- 
fore, he had held title to the ground 
upon which he still lived and strug- 
gled, a heritage from his father ; but 
fortune had dealt slightingly with 
him from the first. With sickness 
in his family, and one disaster after 
another, had come an indebtedness 
which had, in more than one sense, 
been an anchor to his energies. It 
had finally dragged him down bod- 
ily, and bound him helpless at the 
bottom. That debt he had never 
been able to pay through his own 
exertions. He had satisfied the first 
creditor, but it had been by borrow- 
ing the money, at an increased rate 
of interest, from his rich neighbor, 
Colonel Kortright, and giving a mort- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


13 


gage to secure its repayment, upon 
the farm. That mortgage had proved 
a moth which finally consumed the 
place. The interest not being paid, 
in the end the title passed to the 
creditor, and the stripped and de- 
spondent debtor was only too glad 
for the privilege of remaining a ten- 
ant upon the soil which had always 
seemed to treat him with ingrati- 
tude. With an invalid wife and a 
large family of little children, by the 
time his oldest son, Clinton, had 
reached the age of eighteen — the 
period at which our story really 
opens — he was so broken in spirit 
that he scarcely hoped for any im- 
provement in his worldly condition. 

And yet there were few who ap- 
peared better qualified for success. 
Physically, he was a noble specimen 
of a man, standing over six feet in 
height, with all his parts in propor- 
tion. Mentally, too, he was above 
the average. He had read much, 
and his mind was abundantly stored 
with general knowledge ; but even 
learning had proved to him a hin- 
drance and a drawback. It had made 
him a politician, and politics had 
exacted of him much time and mo- 
ney that brought him no adequate 
return. He had not been without 
ambition, and, on several occasions 
had aspired to office ; but his party, 
which never hesitated to demand 
his vote and his services, had always 
given him the cold shoulder, and 
the coveted positions to richer and 
more fortunate men. Still he never 
swerved from his political allegiance. 
With him party was a matter of 
principle. He was what in the lan- 
guage of the day was known as a 


Conservative, and the soldier on the 
field of battle would have sooner 
deserted the standard of his chief 
and country, than Hugh Maintland 
the cause of his party. 

With such a parent, poverty-rid- 
den though he was, Clinton Maint- 
land’s youth had not been without 
opportunities which the boyhood of 
many entering the world under what 
are regarded as more happy auspi- 
ces, fails to supply. He had not 
only inherited his father’s splendid 
physical development, and his strong 
mental characteristics, but had re- 
ceived from him the rudiments of a 
solid primary education. Perhaps, 
however, no circumstance had con- 
tributed more to his advancement in 
the past, and promised more sub- 
stantial benefits in the future, than 
the fact of his having early gained 
the decided affection of his bachelor 
uncle, Martin Swartwout, his mo- 
ther’s half-brother, and the resident 
of an adjoining town, who, although 
destitute of his brother-in-law’s use- 
less culture, and accustomed to boast 
that “ he had no politics,” had not 
only succeeded by the exercise of 
native shrewdness in accumulating 
an independent property, but was 
possessed of that practical know- 
ledge of men, which made him a 
valuable adviser and assistant to a 
youth ambitious to make his way in 
the world. Through his influence, 
Clinton had, after working on the 
farm with his father through the 
summer months, passed several of 
the preceding winters at a school of 
high grade in Baytown, his uncle’s 
village, finding a home and welcome 
by his kinsman’s fireside. 


14 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


The other party to the conversa- 
tion, with a fragment of which this 
chapter opens, was Margaret Kort- 
right, daughter of that Colonel Kort- 
right, to whom reference has already 
been made. To perceive the differ- 
ence in the social positions of the 
young people, it is only necessary 
for the reader to know that Marga- 
ret’s father was not only Hugh Maint- 
land’s landlord, but the wealthiest 
man in all the country round. He, 
too, was a man of superior intelli- 
gence, and something of a politi- 
cian. But such was the contrast be- 
tween his political career and that 
of his tenant, that he not merely be- 
longed to the opposite party, being 
a pronounced Radical, but had never 
sought for office without securing it. 
The rich and influential Colonel Kort- 
right had only to ask a nomination 
at the hands of his party, and it was 
granted as a matter of course. He 
had been honored with several high- 
ly responsible and lucrative posi- 
tions, and, at the date of the inci- 
dents now recorded, was a Senator 
in the State Legislature. Otherwise, 
there was no very wide divergence 
between the more prominent traits 
of the two men. Kortright was 
fully as much of a partisan as Maint- 
land, quite as positive in his convic- 
tions, and even more intolerant of 
the opinions of those politically op- 
posed to him. The disdain with 
which he looked down upon his ten- 
ant, because he was poor and thrift- 
less, was more than matched by the 
aversion with which he was accus- 
tomed to regard him as a political 
opponent — a conservative — “a fogy 
and a Bourbon.” 


Colonel Kortright was a widower, 
his deceased wife, who had died 
several years before, leaving behind 
her an ample estate which she had 
held in her own right, and a daugh- 
ter as the only heir to inherit it, who 
was the Margaret Kortright we have 
discovered in conversation with poor 
Hugh Mainland’s son. 

A glance at the attire of the young 
people, as they sat talking to each 
other, was quite sufficient to reveal 
the distance between their worldly 
stations. Clinton Maintland was 
decently dressed for a farmer’s lad — 
nothing more. His garments were 
of coarse home-made linen — the vest 
being wanting — and with the excep- 
tion of the coat, which had been 
laid aside during hours of labor, 
showed the stains of the day’s em- 
ployment ; for he was then on his 
way home from the field. His throat 
was collarless, and his feet were 
covered by heavy shoes, without the 
addition of stockings. His apparel 
would hardly have seemed decent in 
the society in which in w T hich he was 
found, but for the broad-brimmed 
hat of plaited straw — likewise home- 
made — he was wearing, which, being 
set upon the head in a somewhat 
jaunty w'ay, gave a certain redeem- 
ing but indescribable finish to his 
rustic outfit. But, happily, in his 
case appearances did not depend 
wholly upon dress. There was that 
of pleasant and manly beauty in the 
young man’s face, and a poise and 
shapeliness about his person, in the 
posture of unstudied ease and grace 
in which he had thrown himself, that 
would have gone a great way with 
almost any member of the other sex 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


15 


to compensate for deficiencies of ap- 
parel. The youth enjoyed the repu- 
tation of being decidedly “good- 
looking,” and certainly deserved it. 

The maiden, as became her station, 
was much more richly attired. Her 
hat, which was altogether a coquet- 
tish affair, had a snowy feather in it, 
and she was the wearer, besides, of 
several articles of jewelry. Her 
gown was of some costly stuff, but a 
noticeable rent on one side, and a 
certain disorder perceptible about it, 
gave assurance of hard, if not care- 
less usage, and would have quite un- 
fitted its wearer for immediate pre- 
sentation to “ company.” 

The two young persons — and I 
have carried these details to a length 
which would seem quite unnecessary, 
but for the fact that I am now intro- 
ducing parties who are to sustain 
prominent, if not the leading, parts 
in the transactions hereafter to be 
recorded — presented at this time 
simply their usual appearance at the 
close of a day’s employment ; for it 
was the last hour of sun-light — Mar- 
garet as she had left her lessons and 
plays, and Clinton, as he was pro- 
ceeding homeward from his work. 

The meeting had been accidental — 
at least there was no understanding 
which had brought it about. The girl 
had been loitering in the path when 
Clinton made his appearance. The 
only singularity about the occurrence 
was, that the same thing had hap- 
pened several times before. In that, 
however, there was nothing so re- 
markable. If the maiden had been 
asked why it was she had put herself 
in her present companion’s way so 
often, she would have answered 


frankly and without a blush, that it 
was, “because she liked Clinton.” 
If he, on the other hand, had been 
asked why he was accustomed to 
stop and chat with the maid, he 
would have replied with equal free- 
dom, that it was “ because he liked 
the little girl.” Those rejoinders 
would have explained everything. 
He was a young man, eighteen 
years old, and she was simply a 
child — only fourteen. How wide a 
chasm four years make at that period 
of our existence! How brief the 
interval when life’s serious responsi- 
bilities walk with us through the sun- 
shine and the shadow! Love and 
hate can then step across it with the 
ease that the child o’erleaps the tiny 
rill that trickles from the hillside — 
only four years ! 

The immediate point of the inter- 
view — for the general locality was a 
wealthy farming district in the cen- 
tral portion of the State of New 
York — was a somewhat secluded 
spot, about midway between the 
homes of the parties. A few old 
trees, left standing when the original 
forest had been swept away, fur- 
nished shelter both from, observation 
and the heat of the sun. To add to 
its convenience and attractiveness as 
a meeting-place, a stone fence — once 
marking the boundary line between 
the lands of Hugh Maintland and 
Colonel Kortright, but now falling in 
ruin — supplied desirable seats to 
such as wanted them. The lookout, 
too, from that particular point was 
most inviting. Upon the one hand, 
on rising ground, was to be seen the 
stately homestead of the prosper- 
ous Colonel Kortright, surrounded. 


16 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


guard-like, by a battalion of fine old 
maples, and attended by out-build- 
ings of the most ample proportions. 
On the other hand, and down upon 
a lower plane, as became the subordi- 
nate position of its occupant, was the 
humble and homely dwelling of the 
luckless Hugh Maintland. There 
was nothing about it, certainly, that 
was attractive ; and yet the view 
beyond, extending far down a gradu- 
ally narrowing valley, with a high 
bluff on one side and a gentle accli- 
vity on the other, was most lovely to 
behold. Whatever inducement had 
taken Margaret Kortright there at 
that special hour, when Clinton 
Maintland would be proceeding 
homeward from the field, there the 
two young people were ; and having 
met in such a place, it was not at all 
strange that they should seat them- 
selves upon the old fence, at a becom- 
ing distance from each other, and 
begin a conversation. 

“ You ain’t!” 

If the announcement to which 
these last quoted words were a re- 
joinder had been delivered with more 
of exultation than regret, the contra- 
diction itself expressed more of re- 
gret than incredulity. 

“ Oh yes, I am, Mag — seriously.” 

“ When are you going ?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

But seeing the sorrowful expression 
which filled the great eyes that looked 
up into his face at this announce- 
ment, the boy’s heart relented, and 
he made haste to explain : 

“ I’m not going all the way to New 
York for a long time yet, Mag. I go 
only as far as Baytown to-morrow. 
There I am to teach the village 


school, stopping with my uncle, 
Martin Swartwout, who is to give me 
my board for nothing. Meanwhile 
I am to get books from Squire Bas- 
tion, the lawyer, and read during my 
leisure time. Uncle Martin has 
made the arrangement. Then, when 
I have learned law enough, and have 
been examined and admitted to the 
bar — as they call it — I shall have 
enough money saved to pay my way 
to New York and set me a-going 
there. It’s Uncle Martin’s plan — all, 
except going to New York. You 
don’t know Uncle Martin, of course. 
He’s such a droll old fellow — mighty 
kind, though — and knows, oh, ever 
so much ! He says that if he had 
my head and my chance, he’d make 
himself another Van Buren — his 
name, you see, is Martin, too — and 
he believes Yan Buren, whom he 
shook hands with once, was the 
greatest man that ever lived. He 
says it’s nothing but homicide — that’s 
his word ; I shall know all about it 
when I get to be a lawyer, I suppose 
— to stay here and waste my energies, 
as my father has done before me. 
Uncle Martin’s idea, however, is to 
have me stay in Baytown, and go in 
partnership with old Bastion ; but 
that’s not my notion. I’ve always 
had a fancy to see N^ew York, and 
sometime live there, 'it’s the centre 
of creation — New York is. 7 Every- 
thing’s there. And when I get to be 
a lawyer, I might just as well begin 
at headquarters at once, as start in a 
little cross-roads town that -will 
never be anything. So, it’s to New 
York I’m going.” 

“I’ve heard there were so many 
bad people there — murderers, and 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


17 


robbers, and — and everything that’s 
dreadful,” responded Margaret, dis- 
couragingly, to her companion’s 
glowing picture. 

“ Just the kind of folks we lawyers 
want,” replied the youthful bumpkin, 
as consequentially as if he already 
wore a barrister’s gown. “They’re 
the ones we make our money and 
reputations out of. I hope I’ll find 
lots of murderers when I get to New 
York.” 

“ But why not stay here, Clinton, 
instead of going away off among 
those bad, bad people ? I should so 
like to have you stay.” 

There was something in the voice 
of the girl, as she leaned forward 
and uttered these simple, earnest 
words, that reached a chord in the 
boy’s bosom further down than his 
vanity. It brought him from his 
high horse at once. He grew seri- 
ous, and, having paused a few mo- 
ments for reflection, solemnly deli- 
vered his reply : 

“ Mag, I’ll tell you why. It’s be- 
cause I’m nobody here. I’m only a 
renter’s son — a clod-hopper ; and 
Uncle Martin tells me I’ll never be 
anything else if I stay here. Uncle 
Martin’s right, too. I know he is ; I 
feel it. Your father lives up on a 
hill, in a fine house ; and my father 
lives down in a hollow, in a plain 
house ; and your folks always will 
despise our folks until we get upon 
a hill, too.” 

“ Clinton, I don’t despise you.” 

“ No, Mag, I know you don’t yet — ” 

Here the young man stopped a 
moment, as if trying to choke down 
some bitter thoughts, and then went 
on : 


“ You don’t yet, Mag, and I don’t 
intend, if I can help it, that you ever 
shall. When I’m a lawyer, and have 
plenty of money — perhaps a member 
of the Legislature, like your father — 
I’ll come back and see you.” 

And here, as the speaker turned 
his eyes patronizingly upon his ju- 
venile companion, a blush suddenly 
overspread his countenance, either 
at the perception of the ridiculous- 
ness of his boast, or on account of 
the picture which rose before his 
mind, in connection with that pro- 
posed visit to the little lady then sit- 
ting by his side. 

Whatever his meditation, it soon 
became apparent that a different 
emotion was at that moment at 
work in the maiden’s bosom. Meet- 
ing his condescending look with a. 
steady, pleading gaze, her words 
gushed forth as if they could no 
longer be restrained. 

“Oh, Clinton, I do so wish you 
wouldn’t go away I” 

And with that the speaker’s forth 
tude completely deserted her, a loud 
sob followed, the tears started down 
her cheeks, and her hands went up 
to her face. 

Clinton was surprised — momen- 
tarily confounded. His indecision, 
however, quickly passed. Moving 
his seat to the girl’s side, without, 
perhaps, exactly knowing what he 
was doing, he put his arm about 
her waist, and, drawing her to him* 
began to utter some hurried and in- 
coherent protestations by way of con- 
solation, while he imprinted kiss after 
kiss upon so much of her forehead 
as was unprotected by her hands. 

It was the first time he had ever 


18 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


taken such a liberty with a female, 
and, as for Margaret, beyond a for- 
mal pressure from the cold lips of 
her father, she was wholly unused to 
such a demonstration, having been 
educated into the observance of the 
strictest propriety in her intercourse 
with strangers. It is no wonder, 
therefore, that both parties were 
pretty soon astonished at what had 
happened, their eyes meeting in an 
awkward confession of amazement. 
Happily, at that crisis relief came 
in the faint tinkle of a bell from the 
mansion on the hill. 

“ Oh, that’s for tea !” hastily ex- 
claimed the girl; a my father will be 
wondering where I am; I must go.” 

At the word “father,” the obtru- 
sive arm of her companion, which 
up to that moment had obstinately 
retained its place about her person, 
was quickly withdrawn, and the lib- 
erated maiden, slipping down from 
the fence, ran up the hillside to her 
home, occasionally drying her eyes 
with her apron as she proceeded, 
and in her haste quite forgetting to 
say good bye to the companion she 
had left. 

That young man remained stand- 
ing by the wall as if rooted to the 
spot, his eyes following the girl until 
she disappeared from their sight 
among the trees and shrubbery sur- 
rounding her father’s house. Even 
then he did not stir nor withdraw 
his gaze from the place where he 
had last seen her. His mind was at 
that moment too profoundly em- 
ployed to admit of bodily sense or 
motion. A revelation had come to 
him. Instantaneously, as it seemed, 
he had caught sight of a new exis- 


tence, involving new responsibilities 
and new hopes. As by a lightning’s 
flash the whole aspect of the future 
was changed. He now saw how 
insignificant were the objects which 
had before inspired his ambition, 
compared with the destiny which 
might involve two souls instead of 
one — two lives to be glorified or dar- 
kened forever, according to the rela- 
tion they were to bear to each other. 
A new purpose to live for rose up 
before him, and he stood entranced 
in the presence of the vision. Hence- 
forward he was to be another man. 
It might be for better, or it might be 
for worse, but his soul had known a 
transformation. His spirit had ex- 
perienced the sweetest and at the 
same time the most poignant of sen- 
sations — the knowledge of its capa- 
city to love. 

Meanwhile the minutes sped on. 
The last rays from that day’s sun 
were illuminating the higher ground 
where stood “The Maples,” as the 
Kortright mansion was called, bath- 
ing it and all its surroundings in a 
flood of dazzling splendor, while the 
lower plane, supporting the home of 
poor Hugh Maintland, was already 
clothed in shadow — a contrast strik- 
ingly suggestive of the diverse for- 
tunes of the houses. Slowly the 
shadow crept up the hillside, cover- 
ing first the shrubbery in the yard, 
then the lower story of the great 
house, and finally the whole struc- 
ture, and then night, which is so 
truly typical of that darkness which 
is to sweep over high and low, 
placed the homesteads for a time 
upon an equality. At the same time 
a slight breeze passed through the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


19 


treetops, sending* down a leaf or two 
from the branches overhead, for the 
last days of summer had come. The 
sound recalled the youth beneath to 
consciousness. Heaving a sigh, and 
turning once more in the direction 
of the hill, he exclaimed aloud and 
bitterly : 

“ It’s hard, hard, hard to go away ! 
but how much more is it now my 
duty. It’s my only chance !” 

Then striking into the path, which 
had grown almost imperceptible, he 
moved slowly in the direction of his 
father’s dwelling, and was soon lost 
to sight in the darkness. 

Years went by before the parties 
who, as boy and girl, had thus so 
unceremoniously parted from each 
other, again met. 

Upon Margaret’s late arrival at 
her home, she found her father anx- 
iously awaiting her, and, as was 
plain to be seen, in no very pleasant 
humor. Nothing unusual was said 
until tea was over, when, taking his 
daughter into his study, he told her 
that he had learned through the ser- 
vants, that she had been in the ha- 
bit of meeting and conversing with 
their neighbor Maintland’s son, at 
the same time demanding to be 
informed where she had been that 
very evening. In Margaret’s then 
agitated state of mind, it was an 
easy matter for her father to obtain 
a disclosure of what had passed be- 
tween her and Clinton at the inter- 
view just ended, not excepting the fa- 
miliarities in which he had indulged, 
with the still more aggravating con- 
fession that she was very “fond” of 
him. Colonel Kortright’s rage upon 
earning these facts from his daugh- 


ter’s own lips, was almost uncontrol- 
lable. He sternly forbade her ever 
thinking of Clinton Maintland again ; 
told her that he was absolutely no- 
body — only the son of a renter, who 
*was the next thing to a beggar. 
“The detestable old Bourbon!” he 
exclaimed, as he paced up and down 
the room, “I must get rid of him 
the very first opportunity — rout him 
out with all his worthless crew !” 
The Kortrights, he told Margaret, 
were all people of position. To con- 
sort with one so much beneath her 
as Maintland’s son, he assured her, 
was to bring disgrace both upon 
herself and her family, and the offence 
was one never to be repeated. He 
then ordered the weeping culprit to 
her room, with the injunction that 
she should not leave it without his 
permission. 

The next day, about the same 
hour that Clinton Maintland set out 
from his father’s house on foot, with 
a small satchel swung over his shoul- 
der, on his way to Baytown, as the 
first stage in his contemplated jour- 
ney to fame and fortune, she left her 
home on her way to a distant and 
noted fashionable boarding-school. 
Not long afterwards her father saw 
fit to supply her deceased mother’s 
place with a second wife, whose 
haughty and jealous temper stood 
like a wall between parent and child. 
As the young man she had left 
standing by the old stone fence in 
her father’s grove went forward in 
pursuance of the resolution he had 
there avowed, carrying in his bosom 
the image of a little girl of fourteen, 
never growing older nor more wo- 
manly as the days and years stole 


20 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


on, she, the original of that heart- 
picture, developed into a tall and 
lovely female, whose destiny guided 
her into paths that for a time led 
her steps apart from his. 

To what extent the youthful adven- 
turer’s soul-companion proved to be 
his good genius in the trials he was 
called upon to encounter in the exe- 
cution of his resolve — for no one en- 
ters into a great city to seek his for- 
tune there alone, without entering 
into the fire — cheering him when he 
was despondent, strengthening him 
when tempted, and stimulating him 
to increased exertion when he was 
over-taxed, he was only in part him- 
self conscious. Clinton’s difficulties 
began before he reached New York. 
In the first place, his father disap- 
proved of the course he had decided 
upon. To retain the services of so 
valuable an assistant upon the farm 
was a selfish, but not altogether un- 
natural, desire on the part of one 
bending beneath the burdens of his 
lot. His mother stood in his way. 
Not that she opposed one word to 
his purpose of seeking his fortune 
elsewhere, although the best loved of 
all her children ; but his love for her 
made it very hard for him to leave 
the parental roof. And finally, when 
all other obstacles had yielded, and, 
after a laborious preparatory course 
of study, he stood a most creditable 
examination, and received a certifi- 
cate authorizing him to practice the 
profession he had adopted, he had 
his best friend, Martin Swartwout, to 
oppose the carrying out of his plan 
for going to New York. That kind- 
hearted old gentleman wanted his 
nephew to settle down in Baytown, 


and become the partner of his friend, 
lawyer Bastion. He could see no 
sense, he declared, in any one want- 
ing to go to a place where there 
were too many people already. Folks 
with heads could get along very well 
elsewhere. Martin Van Buren had 
even got to be President in a country 
town ; and that was enough for him 
to know. 

Good soul ! he dearly loved his 
nephew, and the thought of losing 
his society was really at the bottom 
of his objection, although he had 
succeeded in persuading himself that 
the most disinterested motives alone 
influenced his conduct. But the 
young man had a will as well as the 
old one ; and the result was that, 
with the assistance of Polly Brown, 
who from sheer perversity had taken 
his side in the contest, working with 
great industry to get him ready for 
the journey, he set forth one sun- 
shiny day in early spring for the 
goal of his ambition, supplied with 
a few hundred dollars, the savings 
of his labors as a teacher, and a 
stout, trusting heart. Before he 
started, however, the following con- 
versation passed between him and 
his uncle : 

“Clint, it’s my belief that you’ll 
succeed, fur I tell you you’ve got a 
head fur somethin great ; but aforo 
you go, there’s one thing I want you 
to promise me.” 

“What is it, uncle?” 

“ That you will write me an honest 
— recollect the word now — an honest 
account of how you git along when 
you reach the great Bablon.” 

“ I wifi, uncle.” 

“ And I want you further to pro- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


21 


raise that, if you ever git into enny 
scrape — enny downright serious 
trouble that you can’t see your way 
out of — you’ll immediately lit me 
know.” 

“ I promise.” 

“ Then go, and may the Lord go 
with you l” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BONE IN THE STORY. 

Of the ten thousand young men 
from the country who, with favorable 
prospects and bright hopes, annually 
enter New York city with a view to 
permanent residence, nine thousand 
had better at once cast themselves 
into the sea. 

It is not that New York is over- 
full of such material. There is not 
another place in the wide world 
which furnishes a better opening — 
nor as good — to beginners of ster- 
ling character and reasonable ac- 
quirements ; nor one where the de- 
mand is so ill met by the supply. 
Never was there a time without am- 
ple room there for all the good men 
that offered themselves, and when 
their disproportion to the bad — who, 
logically, should be displaced — has 
not been startlingly apparent. Other 
causes of failure to so many who 
venture with equal chances of suc- 
cess into the competition of our 
great metropolis must, therefore, be 
sought. 

Some there undoubtedly are, who, 
lacking the proverbial tenacity of the 
American character, and becoming 
disheartened and unmanned, drift 


back to country walks and merited 
obscurity ; but the number is sur- 
prisingly small. City life — especially 
New York city life — has a wonder- 
fully subtle fascination. Like wine, 
whose properties grow with time and 
use, few, having partaken of its 
mingled bitterness and sweet, are 
ever after able to turn away from 
the excitement and abandon of its 
terrible activity, even in the crisis 
of wrecked and drowning hope. The 
current is against their escape. The 
tide that with us flows city-ward 
never ebbs. The drift upon its bo- 
som takes but one direction. Ameri- 
can society at best is a whirlpool 
whose waters, while spreading into 
wider circles as their volume in- 
creases, draw ever more powerfully 
toward the centre. New York city 
is the focus of our National Mael- j 
strom. 

There is no intention on the part 
of the writer of these pages to at- 
tempt an enumeration or description 
of the sensual and vulgar enticements 
which crouch along every avenue of 
the great city, and which drag their 
thousands down to ruin. With the 
perils of the grosser sort he shall" 
have nothing to do. He proposes to 
follow, for the main channel of his 
narrative, the career of a youth of 
country birth and preparation, who 
seeks our largest city with the same 
hopes and prospects that annually 
take their thousands there; , He has 
already given the reader a glimpse 
of the man. He presents him as 
well moulded in form and spirit — 
with plenty of each — a youth of 
good person, good intellect, good 
heart, and good training, with such 


22 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


weaknesses only as are common to, 
almost inseparable from, our national 
type — not a hero in any super-ideal 
sense — not a paragon exactly — not a 
whit better, in fact, than the average 
of young men who leave the country 
for the city for the city, it must be 
recollected, culls the flower of the 
country’s manhood, alas! too often 
to blight it.^> 

The writer chooses that channel 
for his story, partly because it con- 
ducts to experiences in which Ame- 
rican life — our life — finds both its 
most searching tests and its most 
startling exhibitions ; for he holds 
that there is no society which more 
than ours, by reason of its clear, po- 
sitive traits, and intense activities, 
supplies the elements of genuine, 
engrossing romance ; and partly be- 
cause it would most fitly seem to 
illustrate one of the outgrowths of 
our political and social systems, 
which, although not always admitted 
as an evil — not even as a defect — is 
in truth and in fact the rock upon 
which untold numbers go to wreck. 
That the story itself may serve as a 
lighthouse to warn some of the peril 
which has proved fatal to so many 
— the writer means the too prevalent 
inclination to a political life, with its 
tendency to over-excitement and in- 
tensified partisanship, and which or- 
dinarily finds in the struggles of 
a great city’s diversified and eager 
masses and classes, its strongest and 
most dramatic expression-^is a hope 
that is not concealed. Assuredly, 
the danger is sufficiently real to jus- 
tify the attempt at its delineation. 
That partisanship is one of the banes, 
if not its greatest, infecting our civil 


organization and penetrating to all 
its parts, who will deny ? It is the 
thorn, to change the figure, which 
grows abhorrent amid the rich clus- 
ters of our political privileges and 
liberties. It is the blight which too 
often strikes to the root of the en- 
tire social system. The lesson which 
the contemplation of this national 
infirmity in its inevitable weakness 
would teach, while the writer aims 
to weave a tale in which the men 
and women we know shall hold and 
act their several appropriate parts — 
exclusively and faithfully American 
— is, consequently, to be the bone in 
the story. 

At the same time, the author is not 
unaware that the policy of putting a 
bone into a story at all, or rather of 
admitting its existence, is questioned 
and questionable. There are plenty 
of novel-consumers, possibly the 
greater number, who prefer to take 
their fiction as they do their meats, 
with all hard and obstinate substan- 
ces removed before cooking — or like 
bivalves that have been carefully ex- 
tracted from the shell. But who, 
after all, is so credulous as to sup- 
pose it possible to fashion a story of 
human conduct, sufficiently near to 
the reality of practical life to pos- 
sess either interest or value, which 
will not convey a lesson? which 
will not contain a moral or an immo- 
ral somewhere in its development ? 
The instruction, as well as the mo- 
tive, may be hidden, but like a beast 
of prey in ambush, or a serpent — 
most likely with poison in its fang 
— in the grass, it lurks somewhere 
ready to leap forth at a moment 
when its presence is least suspect- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


23 


ed. It matters not what the writer 
may intend ; it is not possible for 
him to fabricate from events that 
have meaning, and men and women 
that have character, a perfectly mar- 
rowless thing, try as hard as he 
may. Human transactions do their 
own teaching. 

Rejecting all disguises, the writer 
hereof not only announces thus early 
in his story his purpose to put a 
bone into it, but frankly tells what 
the bone is to be, that any one not 
likely to relish the quality of the 
dish, may dismiss it at once. He 
would add, however, by way of quali- 
fication, that, while he admits an ob- 
ject in his work, he has no reference 
to a partisan one. In giving the 
incidents of a tale which is intended 
in some degree to illustrate the evil 
effects of party spirit in others, he 
has honestly sought to divest him- 
self of# all party bias of his own. 
Thus, unimpeded by what would 
seem to be the chiefest hindrance to 
its faithful execution, he addresses 
himself to a task, in the perform- 
ance of which his fear is not so 
much that he may be accused of 
transgressing the bounds of a rea- 
sonable probability, as that lie may 
be suspected of copying too closely 
after actual personages and events. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SEEKING A FOOTHOLD 
Martin Swariwoui to Clinton Mciintland. 

Baytown, N. Y. 

I Deer Nefyu : I sea yuv got the Blews. 
It’s gist as I sed. Yu wood gow a way and 
leve yur trends, and now yuv got. tu ake 
fur it. 


Wei, it’s a leetle tuff, but it wun’t dew 
yu no harm if yur maid ov the stuf tu bare 
it. It’s a queston ov pluck and in durance. 
That’s all. Yu no I didn’t a pruv ov yur 
goin tu that grate Bablon, but now, seain 
yur thare, it’s yur plase and dewty tu hang 
on. The opertunty yu seam so much tu 
want, all ways cums tu them that’s willin 
tu wate fur it. That’s the obswervashun 
ov yur unkle , hoos sean sum thing ov hu- 
man natur, if hees never sean New York. 

Don’t think I’m growl in, fur I aint. I 
luv yu all the saim, and if my best wishes 
fur yur well fare is ov enny a count tu yu, 
yur welcum tu enny a mount ov them . 

And now, Clint, don’t furgit yur promis. 
Yur tu let me no what ever hapens — good 
or bad — specly bad. 

Poly sends hur luv, and ses as how if 
yur a good boy, 3ml be hapy and prospur. 

As I’m not yused tu ritin, 3 r u must egs- 
cuse moor from 

Yur luvin old unkel, 
Martin Swyetwout. 

Clinton Maintland to Martin Swart wout. 

Dear Uncle : To make good my pro- 
mise, I again write 3 r ou ; but it’s the old. 
old story. No clients 3 r et. Others about 
me are bus3 T — very busy ; but for some un- 
accountable reason employment keeps be- 
yond my reach. I hardly know what to 
think of it. I feel that I have that in me — 
both the knowledge and the abilit3 T — to do 
justice to interests which I sometimes see 
but indifferently served, if I were only 
given the opportunity. Oh, for a foothold ! 

Still I do not despair. I remember the 
words of 3 r our last letter. I shall certainty 
“hang on” as long as I can. What an 
honest, affectionate counsellor 3 T ou are ! 

I have made another change in m3 T do- 
mestic arrangements. I told you in m3’ last 
letter that I had given up my room at the 
boarding-house, on account of the expense. 

I now both sleep and eat in my office. 
Such provisions as I can purchase at a con- 
venient bake-shop, and smuggle into m3' 
room after night-fall — for it would never 
answer for a professional man to be sus- 
pected of an3 T thing so low — with water from 


24 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


the hydrant, supply all my bodily wants. 
The only question is, unless there should 
be a change for the better in my affairs, 
how long I can sustain even the expend- 
iture this mode of living involves. I have 
still ten dollars of my money left. 

Believe me, as ever, 

Your loving nephew, 
Clinton Maintland. 

Clinton Maintland to Martin Swartwout. 

Dear Uncle : I have spent the last 
dollar of my money, and no clients. Still, 
as I have some books and clothes I do not 
immediately need, I am not entirely desti- 
tute. You may rely on my “ hanging on ” 
to the last As ever, 

Your loving nephew, 
Clinton Maintland. 

Martin Swartwout to Clinton Maintland. 

Deer Neeyu : I like yur spunk. I all 
ways sed yu had a hed tu sucseed. Hang 
on and be a man, if yu dew starve. 

The fr ends hear is all well and very cum- 
furtbel, cept Poly, hoos ben wurryin concid- 
abel uv lait. 

Glad tu heer ov yur kelth and spirts. 

Yur luvin unkle, 

Martin Swartwout. 

Clinton Maintland to Martin Swartwout. 

Dear, dear Uncle : Victory at last ! lily 
opportunity has come ! A foothold is 
gained ! I am saved— saved, although I 
had reached the very brink. I was stand- 
ing on the precipice’s edge, and looking 
down into the abyss. Will you wonder at 
the language I use, when you knovf, that I 
was starving — actually starving. 

But, before I begin the story of my escape, 
I must tell you something more of the 
strait to which I had been reduced. 

Upon my arrival here, finding that the 
hotel at which I was stopping, and which 
was called first-class, would soon exhaust 
all my mean?, I sought out a very plain, 
but decent, boarding-house. That was my 
first step. Still, by the time I had secured 
and furnished an office, and that most eco- 


nomically, one half of my money was gone. 
Then, as business did not come, 1 found it 
necessary, first to give up my room at the 
lodging-house, and, finally, to both eat and 
sleep in my office. 

Remembering the saying, that, “If you 
keep your office, it will keep you, ” I at first 
remained close to my desk ; but, as day 
after day, and even week after w r eek, passed, 
except monthly the agent for the collection 
of the rent, not one human being darkened 
my door, save an old, muttering beggar, 
who occasionally halted at the threshold 
with doleful countenance and outstretched 
palm. Even his presence I felt as a relief 
well worth the penny I was accustomed to 
throw' him. 

Finding that business was not coming to 
me of its own accord, I concluded to go out 
and look for it. But I w r as a stranger. I 
had no letters of introduction, and when I 
tried to introduce myself, I w r as met with 
coldness, and sometimes with insult. I 
w r as proud — prouder than I thought — and I 
instinctively shrank from contact wuth men 
who cared nothing for me, and took very 
little pains to conceal their indifference. , 
Others, I found, begged for employment as 
a favor ; but I could not. I w'ould have 
died first. 

I visited the courts, and saw attorneys 
with their hands full of business — and some- 
times I flattered myself that I could have 
done better than they did — but that con- 
sciousness appeared to be shared by no one 
else. How aggravating it was! I felt ne- 
glected ; and, of course, wuetched. I tried 
to keep my spirits up, but I could not pre- 
vent occasional despondency. I seemed to 
myself to be a useless, helpless creature, 
and sometimes the question entered my 
mind, spite of me, whether I wouldn’t be 
better out of the way ; and then dark 
thoughts of the river that flows past the 
great city would come and haunt me like so 
many enemies of the soul. 

I think it w r as in part because I did not 
have enough to eat. I had now left my board- 
ing-house, and was sustaining life upon 
the least possible outlay. I never indulged 
in any luxuries. I never visited any places 
cf amusement, much as I longed to sec 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


25 


some of the great artists, whose names were 
on everybody’s lips. Others I could not 
help see enjoying themselves — eating and 
drinking and making merry, seemingly 
careless of the future ; and oh, how hungry, 
and sometimes, how desperate, it made me ! 
At such times it was all I could do to avoid 
the commission of something frightfully 
rash and criminal. Then I had no one to 
, sympathize with me — no one to talk over 
my hopes and apprehensions with. Oh, 
how much, dear uncle, I would have given 
for one hour to be face to face with you ! It 
was terrible to be thus all alone in the midst 
of thousands and thousands. For a green 
country boy to enter a great city is like 
Reaping into the sea. You feel the cold 
waves - go over you, and you shiver from 
Very contact with the human flood. A 
crowd forever sweeps by you, and yet no- 
body speaks to you — nobody cares for you 
—not one familiar face in all the throng? 
The sense of your insignificance grows 
more and more painful. It is hard to be 
absolutely nobody. 

I have often thought vrhat must be the 
agony of one sentenced to the scaffold ; but 
I do not believe that for days, and even 
weeks, as I felt the pangs of growing w^ant 
and saw the gaunt form of starvation com- 
ing nearer and nearer, my sufferings were 
infinitely greater, although I had been 
guilty of no crime — unless it was in neglect- 
ing your advice to keep awaj r from this 
great, selfish city. After my experience, I 
shall never fail to sympathize with, and 
help, when I can, young men who are here 
struggling for a foothold without influence 
and without friends. I don’t wonder any 
longer that so many of thejn fail and go to 
the bad. I see it all now. It is not so much 
that the temptations of a city life are 
stronger add more numerous, as that the 
discouragements of hungering in the midst 
of excessive plenty — of feeling constant 
privation in the presence of luxury and 
splendor — of acknowledging failure where 
so many are brilliantly successful, to one 
who is young and sensitive in time make 
life intolerable, and cause the soul to revolt 
against the laws of both God and man. The 
man gives way to despair, and is lost. 


Take hope from an angel, and you have a 
devil. 

I do verily believe that I should have 
sunk under the trial, had it not been for your 
brave advice to “hang on.” I did think it 
a little — just a little — unkind in you to give 
me that counsel, without at the same time 
offering some assistance, knowing as you 
did that starvation was at my heels ; but 
I did not doubt your heart, and could 
not, somehow or other, altogether question 
your judgment. You, my dear uncle, are 
entitled to the credit of my rescue, and 
yours shall be both the gratitude and 
praise. 

But I have not told you all my trouble. 
Thus far my experience had been that of 
hundreds — nay, of thousands — who have 
risked the same experiment in this vast 
metropolis. I was now to enter on another 
phase of my trial. My money was all gone. 
I then made out a list of such effects as I 
had, with which I could dispose, and yet 
manage to keep up a respectable appearance 
— for you know a professional man might as 
w r ell give up at once as appear shabby. The 
schedule was not very long. I had two 
suits of clothes, and could wear but one at 
a time. As for my overcoat, I should not 
need that before cold weather, and by that 
time the battle would be over one way or 
the other. Some of my furniture I could 
dispense with on a pinch. And besides I 
had a few books I could get along without. 

Having finished my list of available 
assets, I started out one night, soon after 
dusk, with my overcoat on my arm, that 
being the article least likely to be missed. 
Taking an inferior street I followed it until 
I found myself under three golden balls 
glittering in the gaslight — the sign of a 
pawn-broker. Looking about, and seeing 
that no one appeared to be observing me, 
I dodged in. There I found a short, de- 
formed man, with a glittering eye — he had 
but one — crouching behind a high counter, 
and for all the world remind a g me of a 
spider in human form. I.feL ike a fly as 
soon as I came into his prt sence. He 
understood my situation, at a glance, and 
immediately began a rigmarole about old 
clothes being a drug, and nobody buying 


26 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


overcoats in summer. Nevertheless he took 
my garment and examined it over and over, 
at last, with much shrugging of the should- 
ers and many protestations of liberality, 
offering to advance five dollars on it. I 
felt so utterly humiliated in his presence 
that I made no protest at the smallness of 
the sum, but, taking the money and a ticket 
authorizing me to redeem the article, hur- 
ried out of the den. 

On my way back, stopping at a bake- 
shop, I bought a loaf of bread and some 
crackers for my next day’s sustenance, and 
gave away a dollar — a whole dollar— to a 
poor creature whom I found to be a great 
deal worse off than I was — I'll tell you the 
story hereafter — and strange to say, dear 
uncle, after making the sacrifice, felt really 
much richer than before. 

Then having, from the result of my first 
experience with the pawn-broker, entered 
upon a calculation of my probable re- 
sources, I saw that I was indeed near the 
end of my course, unless relief in some 
totally unexpected form presented itself. I 
might manage to supply myself with the 
necessaries of life for a considerable pe- 
riod, living in the economical manner I 
was then doing, but a more serious diffi- 
culty stared me in the face. My office rent 
had to be p rid the first of every month, 
and to provide for the next installment, 
soon to be due, was impossible, even if I 
sacrificed everything on my list ; and de- 
prived of my office, all hope of gaining a 
foothold was gone. The crisis was alarm- 
ingly near ; still there was nothing I could 
do but “hang on” in the shadowy hope that 
a client might drop in upon me — a murder- 
er, a housebreaker, a forger, or some other 
similar angel in disguise — and save me 
from the threatened doom. I almost as 
much expected a fairy to come to my 
assistance. 

Day after day went by as the preceding 
ones had done, and the first of the month 
was at hand. I sat in my office, momenta- 
rily expecting the grinning countenance of 
the obsequious rent-gatherer to appear, and 
I well knew the result when I made 
known the fact that I had neither the mo- 
ney to pay for another month’s occupation, 


nor any knowledge of where it was to be ob- 
tained. My meditations were, of course, 
dismal enough. At last I could endure 
the suspense no longer. I sprang to my 
feet, seized my hat, and started out upon 
the street, going I knew not where. I had 
walked on in that way for some time, 

when, suddenly raising my eyes, I shud- 
dered at finding myself in presence of the 
Tombs, the well-known city prison . How 
long, I said to myself, before my residence 
may be there ? But with that thought came 
a suggestion — one that was entirely new to 
me, and which I know will surprise you. 
If I were an inmate of the Tombs, charged 
with some great crime, I reasoned, I would 
at least be in a condition to be somebody’s 
client ; then, as every man accused of 
crime has a right to be his own lawyer, 
why not, in the absence of any other one 
willing to occupy that relation, be my own 
client ? Upon that idea I acted. 

I had learned the particulars of a rob- 
bery committed the day before. The thief 
had entered a bank during business hours, 
and offering a note to the teller to be 
changed into smaller denominations, had, 
while the latter’s attention was fixed upon 
the bill, suddenly dashed a handful of min- 
gled sand and dust into his face, and then, 
seizing a package of bank notes, had shot 
out of the building, and was lost in the 
crowd. The teller had seen enough of him 
before being blinded, only to know that he 
was a tall, muscular young man, 'with 
black hair, and that he had a bright purple 
scar running along one cheek under the 
eye. The description suited me exactly, 
with the exception of the scar. 

Luckily for my purpose, it so happened 
that, during the hour in which the robbery 
was committed, I had been in court, attract- 
ed as a spectator by the interest I had 
taken in a criminal case then under trial, 
and as I w r as known to, and had conversed 
with several parties present, I concluded 
that I would have no difficulty in estab- 
lishing the fact. 

A little practice with red ink before a 
looking-glass, supplied me with a suffi- 
ciently brilliant scar upon one side of my 
face, and, thus disguised, I went forth to 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


27 


the scene of my proposed operations. Be- 
fore the bank where the theft had been 
committed, was standing a policeman. Ma- 
naging to attract his attention, 1 hovered 
furtively about the door of the establish- 
ment for a few moments, and then started 
rapidly away, A glance behind gave me 
the satisfaction of knowing that I was pur- 
sued. I kept on Until I came to another 
bank, and there, stopping upon the side- 
walk, I entered upon an apparently cau- 
tious inspection of the premises. I had 
been thus employed but a few moments, 
when I felt the officer’s hand upon my 
shoulder. I was arrested and unceremo- 
niously marched to the place where the 
robbery had been executed, and submitted 
to the inspection of the man who had suf- 
fered the assault. He unhesitatingly pro- 
nounced me the culprit. Accordingly, I 
was carried away to prison, passing the 
next night in one of the cells of the Tombs. 

The following day I was brought out for 
examination. In company with several des- 
perate characters, I was conducted into 
the same room where I had been at the 
time the crime with which I stood charged 
was being perpetrated, and where the same 
judge was on the bench. Although the re- 
ported arrest of the supposed bank robber 
had created considerable excitement, and 
brought a good many people to the court- 
room, I managed pretty well to escape ob- 
servation in the midst of my companions, 
and the fact that I had carefully removed 
all ink-stains from my face was not noticed 
before my trial began. The first witness 
against me was the teller of the bank. 
With great confidence he took the stand 
and told his story. He knew I was the 
man, he said, and that without so much as 
turning his eyes towards me. There could 
be no doubt about it — he could identify me 
any place from my general appearance, but 
more especially from the scar upon my 
cheek. 

Her-e the witness for the first time fixed 
his glance upon me, while I, at the same 
instant lifting my head and rising to my 
feet, stood before him face to face. 

“ The same scar was upon the man which 
you see ” 


Here the poor fellow stopped, his eyes 
swelled to nearly twice their former propor- 
tions, and his lips stood agape, as he stared 
into my face with helpless perplexity, his 
own face turning almost crimson under my 
cool and steadfast gaze. 

“Which you see — where?” sternly de- 
manded the judge, who had been closely 
inspecting my countenance. 

“Nowhere ; I don’t know whether this is 
the person or not !” finally faltered the con- 
founded witness. 

My release was assured ; but to remove 
every trace of suspicion, I explained to the 
judge who I was, and that at the time the 
robbery was shown to have taken place, I 
had been in that very room, going on not 
only to relate particularly what had then 
transpired there, but giving the names of 
parties with whom I had been conversing, 
some of whom were then present in court 
to verify my words; and, indeed, the judge 
himself recollected seeing me there at the 
time. 

Of course I did not need to add another 
word ; but here was an opportunity which 
I felt that I could not afford to neglect ; so 
obtaining from the court the privilege of 
making a few remarks, I proceeded to de- 
nounce in terms which could not possibly 
have contained more of indignant eloquence 
had I been the unwilling victim instead of 
the contriver of the whole affair, the blun- 
dering and cruel recklessness which had 
exposed me to such intolerable treatment. 

Now I know verj- well, uncle, what you 
will say to all this — you with your rigid no- 
tions of honest dealing, and your stern dis- 
like of all insincerity ; but you must re- 
member not only the license which is given 
to my' profession, but the terrible strait in 
which I was placed. Necessity makes sad 
work sometimes with the nicest of our 
scruples. 

Well, as a number of newspaper report- 
ers had been attracted by the importance of 
the case, my remarks, with all the attend- 
ing circumstances, were duly given to the 
public, accompanied in several instances 
with editorial comments, which were highly 
complimentary to me ; so that I received a 
free advertisement, which would ordinarily 


23 


FIVE HUNDEED MAJOEITY. 


be regarded as a fortune to a professional 
man. But there were more immediate be- 
nefits. One of my fellow-prisoners, whose 
trial was to follow mine, and who had 
made up his mind to plead guilty, and so, 
as he said, save his money, on seeing how 
successful I had been, changed his pur- 
pose, and slipped into my hand a roll of 
bills — my first fee, and which I received 
with so much apparent indifference that I 
did not even then look at it — as a retainer 
of my services. I succeeded in securing 
his acquittal. This double success so en- 
hanced my professional standing that, at 
the end of my second victory, I was prompt- 
ly retained in another case — fortunately not 
to come off until the following day, and an- 
other fee was pocketed. 

I might, perhaps, have secured other busi- 
ness, had I been able to remain in court, 
but the fact is, my strength was exhausted. 
I had eaten nothing that was really nourish- 
ing for days. Nature imperatively demand- 
ed relief, and as I had now the means, I 
was not long in finding a restaurant, and 
partaking of the first satisfactory meal I 
had enjoyed for nearly two months. I was 
the happy possessor, when I came to count 
my day’s earnings, of over one hundred 
dollars — think of that ! I have satisfied 
my delinquent office rent, and intend, as 
soon as night furnishes a cover to my 
movements, to again visit the shop of my 
blood-sucker friend, the pawn-broker — I 
hope for the last time, for the redemption 
of my coat. 

This has been a long, long letter, dear 
uncle, but I can’t conclude it without re- 
lating another instance of my luck, as I 
have no doubt it will prove to be. Fortune, 
in return for her many slights, has seemed 
resolved to shower all her blessings upon 
me at once. I can scarcely persuade my- 
self, even as I am writing these facts, that 
the whole is not a dream. 

As I was hurrying out of court, I was 
stopped near the door by a very gentle- 
manly man, whose address was so cour- 
teous — so different from what I had been 
accustomed to from strangers — that I could 
not help listening to him. He congratulat- 
ed me upon my success, inquired my name 


and place of business, and handing me his 
card, with the remark that it might be in 
his power to do me a service, asked me to 
call upon him at my convenience. Look- 
ing for the first time at the little i>iece 
pasteboard he had handed me, when I was 
by myself, what was my astonishment to 
find upon it the name of one of the most 
famous and influential men in this city, a 
noted politician and office-holder, a sachem 
of the great Tammany Society, and who is 
known to control a great deal of business 
and patronage. What he wants of me I 
cannot imagine, but it can be nothing to 
my disadvantage. 

And now, dear uncle, having told you 
my story, which you know me well enough 
to believe, notwithstanding it seems almost 
too good to be true, it remains for me oniy 
to again thank you for the great and consi- 
derate kindness you have always shown to 
Your appreciative nephew, 

Clinton Maintland. 

Martin Swartwout to Clinton Maintland. 

Deer Nefyu : Yur last has saived me a 
pack ov bother. I had my bag all pact — a 
half duzen cleen slants, as menny soks, 
ditty liankeercheefs, a hotel ov corjeai fur 
tizick, a coaid chiken fur lunshun, and my 
nite-cap. Poly, hoo had ben a wurryin me 
most feerfull fur littin yu gow tu that dred- 
full plase, tho yu no she luck yur side ov 
the queston, wanted me to take Lecides a 
hole ham, a half quarter ov beaf, a jug ov 
bild sider, and a bucit ov elder gam, be cos 
she new yu wus a starvin. I shud hav ben 
gon by the nixt stage. I lit yu no nothin 
ov my intenshun, be cos I wanted yu to 
hang on yurself as long as yu cud. 

Now, Clint, I’m both glad and sorrey tu 
heer ov yur suckces. Glad be cos I luv yu 
— sorrey be cos yur now exposd tu a far 
grater pearl. I meen the risk ov over a 
bundance. What feeds the boddy, offten 
starvs the sole. 

Yu dont no why I posed yur goin tu New 
York — at lest the hole ov it. Hear I cud a 
kept an eye on yu, but thare yur all a lone, 
and thats the cos. New Yorks a bad, bad 
plase fur a yung man thats a risin, unles 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


29 


hees got a mutter, or a cros old unkle, or, 
bettern all, a wife, providin shees the rite 
kind ov a won, to keep an eye on him. As 
long as hees a starvin, it dont matter much 
wliare he is ; fur then the bad wons will lit 
him a lone. But when prosperty cums, 
then the temters thares a lejon, tho sum ov 
them dus cum in anjels forms. 

Iv scan the pearl yur in from the start, 
bettern, I feer, than yu dew. Yung men is 
libel to be blinded, when old wons keap 
thare visliun. Yuv got a good hed— a hed 
fur sum thing grate— but yuv got the week- 
nes thats common tu yuth. From yur own 
a count I descuver yur all ready beset. That 
tine gentelman and grate pollytishun yur so 
taken with, wus as in diffrent tu yu as enny 
buddy until he sean yu had a hed. Then it 
wus esy enuf fur him tu be plesunt. Its 
thare weigh. Now I dont a cuse him ov 
meenin yu enny harm, but he dont meen 
yu enny good. Hees simply wurkin in sum 
maner fur him self — not fur yu. Polly- 
tiskuns is all a like. Thay need wachin. 

I dont meen tu tel yu tu be distrustfull, 
or tu refuse enny kindnes. I dont pertend 
tu tel yu wat tu dew. Yuv got tu be yur 
own judge and gide. I meen simply that 
yu cant now be two carefull. Yuv reeched 
tne most risky pint in yur carrear. Its the 
pint whare most yung men loose thare heds, 
and then it dusnt take long fur thare feet tu 
toiler. Ganin a foothold yuv found a hard 
biznes, but loosin it yul find tu be esy enuf. 
Wons upliil — tothers downhil. 

I dont say all this be cos I dout yu, but 
be cos I luv yu. Yur more to me, Clint, 
than a sun. Im but a plane, blunt man 
with leetle laming, but my harts all rite. 
Oh, if yu wus tu cum tu harm, it wood a 
most kill me ! But thare, Iv giv yu the 
longgest leter I ever rit in my hole life. 
Thats the pruff ov my feelin fur yu. 

Poly sends her luv now, and ses sheel 
send yu sum more shurts and stocins sune. 
Shees in high fetlier — Poly is — be cos she 
tuck yur cide on the New York queston. I 
tel her tu wate be fore crowin. 

Dont furgit yur promis, Clint, what evr 
cums. Yur to rite me at unst, shud yu git 
intu enny scrape — enny trubble yu cant sea 


yur way cleen thru. And now may Heven 
wach over and bles yu, is the prare ov 
Yur luvin old unkle, 

Maetin Swaetwout. 


CHAPTER Y. 

TWO POLITICIANS. 

“ My speech, daughter ?” 

“ It is ready, father.” 

“ I knew it would be.” 

The speakers were Barton Sea- 
crist and his daughter Kate. They 
were seated on opposite sides of a 
richly carved table in a large, lofty, 
and elegant library ; and, as they 
exchanged the words above quoted, 
the picture they made, both in ex- 
pression and personnel, was striking 
and well worth a study. For that 
reason, as well as because they are 
to be prominent parties to the tale 
hereafter to be told, I shall take ad- 
vantage of their present sitting to 
sketch them for the reader’s inform- 
ation. 

Imagine a head that has been 
skillfully cut from the finest and 
purest Italian marble, with the chin 
just a little overreaching the limit of 
perfect symmetry, and with a fore- 
head narrow, but shapely, rising to 
correspond, giving a face long and 
sharp, but exquisitely chiselled; crown 
it with a slight cover of the finest 
and softest of silver-white hair, and 
then set it upon a tall and elegantly 
moulded person of rather delicate 
structure, and you have as accurate 
an idea of Barton Seacrist, physically, 
as any language I am able to use 
will convey. His complexion was 


30 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


especially suggestive of a statue, be- 
ing, as seen in bis still, pale face, and 
one long and slender hand resting 
upon the table beside him, so clear, 
so entirely pallid, as to make the 
man seem absolutely bloodless. 

So much without reference to the 
eye. That feature introduced and 
the whole aspect is changed. What 
before appeared lifeless and cold at 
once becomes instinct with animation 
and intelligence. It was a wonder- 
ful eye Barton Seacrist had — not 
large, not brilliant, but singularly 
clear and penetrating. It was a per- 
fect index to the character of the 
man. A single glance at his counte- 
nance, when lit up by its accustomed 
expression, showed the shrewd, cal- 
culating, and plausible being he was 
— an old man, with all the beautiful 
outward insignia of advanced age, 
but upon whom you never thought 
of looking with reverence, because 
you saw how youthful and vigorous 
his spirit was. His eye, which had 
never grown old, told the story of 
the man’s intellectual activity. Not 
that its glance was disagreeably in- 
cisive. A smile was the habitual ex- 
pression of its wearer’s countenance, 
sometimes sinister, but generally soft 
and winning. Altogether Barton 
Seacrist was, as far as physique went, 
a somewhat stately, but very charm- 
ing, elderly gentleman. 

His career had been considerably 
checkered, and was, altogether, extra- 
ordinary. In youth, being remark- 
ably handsome, he had led a rather 
dissolute and useless life. In middle 
years he had grown ambitious, but 
was fickle and visionary, unsuccess- 
fully trying his hand at a dozen dif- 


ferent pursuits. When past the meri- 
dian of life he had accidentally en- 
tered into politics. It was his op- 
portunity, and he grasped it with a 
resolute hand. The craft which had 
turned beneath so many others, hur- 
rying them out of sight, and gener- 
ally to their undoing, seemed strange- 
ly pliant to his pilotage. It bore him 
eventually to fortune. His rise had 
been astonishingly rapid. 

It was not, as many supposed, the 
result of luck and chance. Barton 
Seacrist had been a lucky man where 
few, comparatively, succeed, because 
he had found his element. He was 
a born politician. To him the in- 
trigues of a public life were labors of 
choice, if not of love, untiringly pur- 
sued ; and the results, which often 
seemed accidental, flowed from the 
profoundest calculation. He toiled 
incessantly, and his promotion had 
been fairly earned, notwithstanding 
many supposed, from the apparent 
naturalness with which advantages 
fell to his lot, that they were not 
only without effort, but without soli- 
citation, on his part. He knew bet- 
ter. He knew how controlling events 
had been brought about, and what 
days and nights of patient, but un- 
seen, struggle they had cost. But at 
no period of his life had Barton 
Seacrist labored so unremittingly 
and craftily as at the time when he 
is first introduced to the readers of 
these pages. 

At first, being poor, he had, at a 
seeming sacrifice, accepted an inferior 
office, and was content with moderate 
progress. No opportunity for ad- 
vancement, however, was missed, 
notwithstanding he never appeared 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


bl 


ambitious. The secret of his success 
consisted in his ability to mask his 
real design. Office, although dili- 
gently sought after, and often the 
product of a long round of system- 
atic plotting, always seemed to be 
forced upon him in the end. He 
constantly talked about retiring from 
public life, and was forever making 
pretended sacrifices in accepting po- 
sition, to gratify his friends and par- 
ty. He consequently made few ene- 
mies, and never unnecessarily. Ri- 
vals he inevitably had ; but these he 
generally managed to humor along 
until in his own power or a position 
to be crushed, and then he was mer- 
ciless. Adversaries he held it better 
to purchase with favors than to fight ; 
but if a conflict was unavoidable he 
shrank not from the encounter, and 
he rarely had been worsted. He 
never lost his temper under defeat, 
seeming always to be more concerned 
on account of the disappointment to 
his friends than for himself. His 
fidelity to his party was proverbial. 
He never deserted it or its cause, 
whatever its fortunes. Caucus deci- 
sions, particularly when controlled 
by his own hand, were things that in 
his eyes were sacred. In fact, there 
is scarcely a winning point in which 
he did not display the true quality, 
if not of the model, at least of the 
successful, American politician. 

But the clearest proof of Barton 
Seacrist’s political capacity has not 
yet been touched upon. He accu- 
rately estimated the influence of gold 
as a political motor. He held that 
in politics, more than anywhere else, 
is money power. He never hesitated 
to use money in his political opera- 


tions when the emergency demanded 
it. His highest sagacity was shown 
in deciding when, how, and to what 
extent it should be introduced. He 
neither wasted nor stinted his ammu- 
nition. But, while unchecked by any 
scruples as to its employment, his 
own hand was never detected in its 
use. 

To provide himself with a means 
so potential in controlling men, singly 
or in masses, he wisely neglected no 
favorable occasion for increasing his 
private wealth. Not that he was 
niggardly in any of his dealings, nor 
parsimonious in his outlays. On the 
contrary, he was lavish to seeming 
extravagance — on occasions — and en- 
joyed the reputation of being not 
merely free-handed, but disinterested. 
He sometimes gave away the entire 
salary of an office to the poor of a 
doubtful political ward, and now and 
then subscribed munificently to a re- 
lief fund, made necessary by some 
great and startling calamity. Nor 
did his liberality stop there. When 
money was demanded by his party 
for party purposes, no man was more 
willing and prompt than he to re- 
spond. 

In another respect he demonstrated 
his liberality. He was generous to 
himself. As his means increased, he 
steadily improved upon his former 
style of living ; until, from a resi- 
dence in one of the down-town 
wards, and on a street that was not 
very respectable even there, advanc- 
ing step by step, he finally became 
the owner and occupant of one of the 
first mansions on one of the first 
avenues of the city. It was surpris- 
ing to see how much this visible pro- 


32 


FTVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


motion improved liis standing -with 
the better portion of the community. 

But in all his pecuniary outlays 
there was a ve,in of the closest cal- 
culation. lie expended money be- 
cause it paid him to do so. He 
watched with equal vigilance the out- 
going and the in-coming stream. He 
intended that the source of supply 
should always exceed the sum-total 
of outlay ; and in finance, as in poli- 
tics, he made few miscalculations. 
The field in which he operated — New 
York city — was peculiarly suited to 
his ability. It afforded him unex- 
ampled opportunities for profitable 
speculation — to say nothing of al- 
leged peculation. In a hundred ways 
there was money to be made where 
his influence or his knowledge was 
useful ; and, by a process that was 
never divulged, whenever money was 
made, he received a share. And yet 
he was never — at least openly — 
guilty of official malfeasance. No 
one pretended to explain how it was 
accomplished, but the result was 
transparent. He grew rapidly rich 
— very rich. 

He belonged, of course, to the do- 
minant party ; until, in time, it might 
more properly be said to belong to 
him. Having joined the political so- 
ciety of Tammany, he had become one 
of its Sachems ; and of the several 
hundred men who have held the po- 
sition from the remote period of its 
organization, no one was ever cre- 
dited with the exhibition of greater 
zeal and sagacity in the advance- 
ment of the two objects which the 
members of that powerful and vener- 
able society pre-eminently have in 
view — themselves and their party. 


Although now an old man — over 
sixty — he yet labored with an assi- 
duity that was perfectly untiring. He 
did seriously think of abandoning 
public life — but it was after certain 
“points,” which were clearly defined 
in his own mind, had been made. 
There were to be gathered a few 
more sheaves to crown the harvest of 
his political life, and then he would 
be content to rest. 

Barton Seacrist was a widower, 
whose deceased wife had been dead 
for a number of years. His family, 
at the time that he is introduced to 
the reader’s notice, consisted of him- 
self, his daughter Kate, the younger 
child, and a son, of whom more 
hereafter. 

One difficulty Barton Seacrist had 
keenly felt after his rise in public 
life. That was the lack of early edu- 
cation. Speeches had to be made and 
documents written for the public 
eye ; and he knew that he was in 
constant danger of saying something 
that might make him ridiculous — of 
a blunder worse than a crime. As- 
sistants he could employ, but he 
needed a confidant as well as an as- 
sistant — some one on whose discre- 
tion and fidelity he could absolutely 
rely. Such an assistant he had found 
in his daughter. She filled a place 
which no stranger could supply. 

Physically, Kate Seacrist was a 
literal copy of her father, although 
reproduced upon a much smaller 
scale. She was slight — even peti fee in 
form. She had the same clear, sharp 
cut features, the same positive chin, 
high forehead, vivid eye, hueless 
complexion, and hair of a deep, 
glossy blackness, such as his had 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


33 


once been. She was not ordinarily 
beautiful. Her face, although full of 
character, and always interesting, 
seemed too long for her almost dimi- 
nutive person, and her eye, while 
intense in its expression, had, in re- 
pose, a certain tone of seriousness, 
not to say of seventy, which de- 
prived her countenance of her father’s 
characteristic smile. But more of a 
drawback than anything else was 
her complexion, or rather want of 
complexion, which, although harmo- 
nizing with her father’s snowy hair 
and multiplied years, in contrast 
with her raven tresses and equally 
youthful eye, imparted a pallor and 
shadowiness to her countenance that 
were almost startling. And yet there 
were times when Kate Seacrist was 
singularly beautiful. When any unu- 
sual excitement had called the rich 
blood to her cheeks, or her natural 
paleness had succumbed to those ar- 
tificial helps which her sex has not 
disdained to employ, she was capa- 
ble of giving” to her features a de- 
meanor that was almost irresistible 
in its fascination. Her face could 
light up most wonderfully. 

But mentally, Kate Seacrist was 
even more pronounced her father’s 
counterpart. She possessed the same 
energy of will, the same fondness 
for intrigue, the same abundance of 
resource. She loved her father ten- 
derly, unselfishly — doted upon his 
success — and was a party to all his 
schemes. He consulted her in every- 
thing, and trusted her judgment 
almost as much as his own. It was 
a rare, powerful combination. An 
old man and a young girl working 
as one person, governed a great city. 


What he most lacked — the polish 
and facility of early training — she 
supplied. She wrote his speeches, 
addresses and public correspondence, 
and, fully infused with his views, 
confidently indited leading articles 
for such journals as were in his inte- 
rest or pay, that were accepted by 
his followers as unquestionable au- 
thority — and did it all with a keen 
and perfect relish — did it unostenta- 
tiously, and with no desire to be 
personally known. The truth is, 
she was as much of a born politician 
as her father, and had it been her 
lot to enter the world a century 
later, by which time it is fair to pre- 
sume that her sex will have accord- 
ed to it those civil privileges for 
which its more advanced members, 
are working, she would doubtless, 
gain a position fully as exalted as. 
that to which her father had risen.. 
Possessed of the same instincts and 
aspirations, in her, if the writer does 
not misinterpret the shadows of com- 
ing events, the reader will find illus- 
trated in their united strength and 
weakness the qualities that are to 
belong to the future feminine ruler 
of the State. 

“ It is ready, father !” 

With those words Kate Seacrist 
took from her pocket a small silver- 
mounted key, and, opening a drawer 
by her side, removed from it several 
half sheets of closely-written manu- 
script. These she handed across 
the table to her father. Taking 
them up one by one,, he began the 
task of their examination, while she 
sat silent and constrained, her eyes 
fixed upon her father’s countenance 
with such a look of absorbing wist- 


34 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


fulness as showed how solicitous she 
was for his approval of her work. 

Barton Seacrist read on in silence, 
laying down page after page as he 
proceeded, until, entering upon a 
paragraph which seemed to be espe- 
cially gratifying, he dropped his re- 
serve and began to read aloud : 

“ The first great office of political 
— or, perhaps more properly speak- 
ing — of practical Democracy, is to 
assert the just claims of what are 
called ‘ the lower classes.’ The rich 
and powerful are in no need of de- 
fenders. Constituting what has al- 
ways been the ruling class, they 
have never shown any backwardness 
in protecting their own interests, 
even when those of other portions of 
the community have — as has too 
often been the case — suffered from 
neglect. It requires the exercise of 
very little patriotism and statesman- 
ship to vindicate their rights. But, 
when we come to the subordinate — 
not to say inferior — grades of so- 
ciety, a widely different and vastly 
superior qualification is demanded. 
It requires a higher, not lower, order 
of statesmanship to properly calcu- 
late and champion the claims of the 
poor and neglected. It is a quality 
most rare, and exalted as rare, which 
we find making a party the defender 
of the defenceless, the friend of the 
friendless. 

“ What folly to suppose that we 
can dispense with even the lowest of 
our social classes, or what is practi- 
cally the same thing, leave it un- 
cared for! It is the beauty of our 
political system that it acknowledges 
no superiority among men. It re- 
cognizes all as equals, and, in its 


practical working, gives each his 
place and function. No part of the 
mechanism is neglected. Every por- 
tion has its office, and its due per- 
formance is indispensable to the suc- 
cessful operation of the whole. It is 
not the great wheel or the ponde- 
rous roller that spins the thread or 
weaves the texture. The smallest 
buzzing member of the mighty com- 
bination, that seems but an accident 
amid its thunderous neighbors, and 
the insignificant spindle that sings 
unnoticed at its task, is each a party 
— a necessary party — to the grand 
achievement. ” 

“ Well said ! well said, Kate !” en- 
thusiastically exclaimed the old man 
at this point, turning his eyes from 
the manuscript to his daughter. 
“ You have caught my idea exactly. 
We must stoop to and tickle the 
lower classes if we would rise our- 
selves. That’s the secret of success 
in New York politics. It’s not re- 
spectability that’s politically upper- 
most here, or, for that matter, ever 
will be. New York is governed from 
below — not from above. The rab- 
ble are our masters, and, if we are to 
have power, we must get it from 
them. They must be conciliated at 
every risk. No difference how aris- 
tocratic we aim to become ourselves 
— socially, and all that, we must 
never lose sight of the fact that our 
political fortunes have their only 
sure foundation on the lower strata. 

“But — ” and there was a mo- 
ment’s pause, perhaps of hesitation, 
in -which the speaker’s countenance 
put on the blandest of its character- 
istic smiles — “But, would it not be 
well — I mean simply as a matter of 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


35 


policy at that point, to say some- 
thing about ourselves, something 
about our own humble origin ; how 
we started from the people ? It w r ould 
be a point in our favor with the 
masses.” 

“I think,” coldly replied Kate, 
“ we can leave our enemies to speak 
of that ; they are not likely to for- 
get our humble origin.” 

There was unmistakable sarcasm 
in the words ; Barton Seacrist no- 
ticed it, and felt it. 

“ You don’t mean, do you, Kate,” 
he asked, “ that anybody on the 
Avenue has been disrespectful, be- 
cause we are — are new-comers ?” 

“I don’t mean,” replied the girl, 
“ that anybody has said anything. I 
would not like to say so much for 
their thoughts.” 

“Pooh! pooh!” replied the old 
man gaily ; “ who cares for their 
thoughts? It’s money that governs 
the Avenue — not blood — and as long 
as we have plenty of money, we’ll be 
respected, if we did make it by poli- 
tics, and a little faster than the rest 
of them — particularly,” he added, 
after a momentary pause, “if we 
succeed in making those points we 
were discussing.” 

To this sally Kate Seacrist, upon 
whose brow a shade had settled, 
made no reply, and her father re- 
sumed the reading of the speech she 
had prepared for him, and which 
was intended for a meeting of his 
party, soon to take place. 

“ It will read well in the Herald ,” 
he remarked approvingly, when the 
document was finished. Then spring- 
ing up — for he was still an agile 
man — he skipped round the table to 


where his daughter sat, put his arms 
about her neck, and imprinted a 
kiss upon her lips. 

The shade instantly fled Kate Sea- 
crist’s brow. Her eyes looked up 
lovingly into those of the old mail 
bending devotedly and gallantly over 
her, for Barton Seacrist’s manner 
was gallantry itself. As politicians 
both knew how to flatter and dis- 
semble ; but there could be no ques- 
tion as to the sincerity of the affec- 
tion that was manifested there. 

“Ah, Kate, you’re a treasure!” ex- 
claimed Barton Seacrist earnestly. 
“ Had you been but a boy ! Had my 
boy been but like you !” 

“ Now, father, don’t speak of broth- 
er again in that way, I beg of you,” 
said, the girl almost piteously, as she 
noted the look, half of sorrow and 
half of anger, that took the place of 
the smile on her father’s face. “ Gor- 
don may change — grow steady. He 
is young yet — only two years older 
than I am.” 

Then, seeing that the frown she 
wished to dispel still remained, she 
changed her tactics, adding hurried- 

ty = 

“ Oh, father, I forgot to tell you 
that I had sent round a leader for 
the Rocket preparatory to your speech. 
I thought you would like to have 
something said in advance.” 

“ Thanks ! daughter, thanks ! you 
foresee everything.” 

“ Thanks 1” he again added. “ But 
there is another thing — a trifle — I 
might as well speak of. I have given 
the members of the Thunderbolt 
Hose Company a new uniform, and 
their leader a new trumpet. They 
intend serenading me to-night The 


36 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


reporters will be present, and some- 
thing will have to be said — not much 
— something complimentary — an ac- 
knowledgment of the honor and — 
and — so forth — you understand.” 

“ I shall have something ready for 
you.” 

“ Thank you !” 

For a few seconds neither spoke. 

“ There is another matter, Kate.” 

“ Something about the new Ger- 
man newspaper ?” 

“ No, daughter ; I don’t mean 
that.” 

Whatever it was, the girl’s tranquil 
countenance showed that she antici- 
pated nothing very important. 

“You’ll have to throw Beverly 
Matson over, Kate.” 

“ Throw Beverly Matson over, fa- 
ther?” exclaimed the girl with a 
start and a look of unaffected sur- 
prise. 

“Yes, Kate. Tie won’t answer — 
is hardly up to the mark — particular- 
ly if we make all our points. You’ll 
have to throw Beverly Matson 
over.” 

“ But, father, his family is ” 

“ Only second rate.’ , 

“ And he is ” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ But consider, father. Recollect 
this is my third engagement since — 
since we got up — and there was an 
affair before.” 

“ Oh that was before the flood !” 

“ That’s the trouble, father. The 
flood is getting into the ebb. I am 
twenty-six.” 

“ And I am sixty-three. What’s to 
become of my market ?” 

The cheery laugh with which this 
was said, was worth more in a dis- 


cussion of that sort than a whole 
quiver of the sharpest arguments. 

“ Very well, father ! It shall be as 
you say ; but remember the danger. 
Procrastination ” 

“Never fear, daughter! Never 
fear ! If we only make our points, 
there’s not a family in New York 
that won’t be proud of an alliance 
with us. But, while on the subject 
of young men, in court the other 
day — I had gone there to bail some 
of our men who had got into diffi- 
culty ; they’re always getting into 
difficulty, but we can’t do without 
them for all that — I met a remark- 
ably bright young fellow — fresh from 
the country — a stranger here. He 
handled himself exceedingly well, 
and, having a talk with him a day or 
so afterwards, I was very much 
pleased with him. I thought of in- 
viting him to the next dinner party 
we give our friends. Pay him some 
attention, Kate. He’ll appreciate the 
favor, and, if I’m not greatly mis- 
taken, is worth securing for our side. 
Bain — Gain — Wain — I have his card 
somewhere — Maintland’s the name — 
remember, Clinton Maintland. But 
I must be going. I’m to meet a 
committee of the Journeymen Horse- 
Shoe Makers’ Association this morn- 
ing. It’s an organization that must 
be looked after closely — closely. Good 
morning, dear !” 

And Barton Seacrist, having kissed 
his daughter again, walked briskly 
out of the room. 

Kate sat at the table, with an un- 
usually sober expression of counte- 
nance for a long time after her 
father was gone, without word or 
motion. Then she took a pen in her 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


37 


hand, and spread out some clear 
white paper before her ; but still she 
did not write. 

“Well, I suppose it must be so,” 
she at last began speaking to herself 
with a sigh, “ although I liked Bev- 
erly Matson. He is certainly good- 
looking, if not altogether our equal 
now. Yes, I could have liked Bev- 
erly almost — almost as well as 

Poor Kobert! I wonder what has 
become of him. A carpenter still, I 
suppose — married — with a family of 
children — probably. That’s always 
the way with those low people — they 
marry — have families of children — 
but — but — let me see — it’s the Thun- 
derbolt Hose Company — Friends and 
Fellow-Citizens — Deeply sensible of 
the honor you confer, I cannot per- 
mit you to return to your homes 
without an expression of the grati- 
tude and pleasure I feel.” 

The last sentence was committed 
to paper, for Kate’s soliloquy had 
lapsed into the speech she was about 
to prepare for her father. Her pen, 
when once the task was undertaken, 
ran on rapidly and uninterruptedly ; 
and in a few minutes the work was 
done. The manuscript was deposited 
in the table drawer, the key turned 
in the lock, and then consigned to 
her pocket. 

Then rising and stationing herself 
before a large and elegant pier-glass, 
she stood silently contemplating her 
own image for a considerable time. 
The picture was by no means a flat- 
tering one. Her ashy-pale cheeks 
and slight, somewhat shrunken limbs 
and skinny features, made more 
noticeable by the dishabille of a 
morning dress carelessly assumed 


for her day’s labors, not only gave 
her the air of a person wasted by 
over-tax of body or mind, but con- 
veyed the impression of an age 
even beyond the one she had men- 
tioned. From the shadow resting 
upon her brow it was evident that 
she derived no satisfaction from the 
survey. The longer she retained her 
position, the deeper grew the frown 
of vexation with which she regarded 
herself. At last, turning petulantly 
away, she touched a silver bell upon 
the table at which she had been 
writing — then resumed her place be- 
fore the glass. 

“How old do I look?” she asked 
rather sharply of a bustling French 
waiting woman — her dressing maid 
— who appeared in answer to the 
summons. 

“About tween-tee X should say,” 
answered Mademoiselle Cathron with 
a simpering smile. 

“Tween-tee, pshaw!” responded 
Kate. “Don’t you see that wrinkle 
there ?” 

She pressed her finger to her fore- 
head at the suspected point. 

“Nay! nay! no wreen-keel yet. 
Only — what do you call him ? — a line 
— a trace — a shade. We must rub 
him out — so eas-ee.” 

“ What I need is color — more 
color,” observed Kate. 

“ Me-es is certainly a lee-teel 
pale.” 

“ Then get your cosmetics and go 
to work.” 

An hour later, as Kate Seacrist 
swept forth to her carriage in full 
afternoon dress for a drive in the 
Park, her sparkling, rosy cheeks, her 
bright, fresh complexion, and her 


38 


FIVE HUNDSED MAJORITY. 


small, but full and elegantly rounded 
person, would nave convinced any 
beholder that her age was on the 
sunny side of twenty. Such a mir- 
acle ha4 art achieved in that short 
time. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ONLY A FEW FKIENDS. 

Clinton Maintland’s triumph, of 
which, in the first flush of natural 
exultation, he had written his uncle 
so enthusiastically, was followed by 
a very reasonable, but on that ac- 
count no less trying season of de- 
pression. It was a shower he had 
enjoyed — a golden shower, it was 
true — not a steady rain. He had 
produced a sensation ; but all sensa- 
tions are transitory, and especially 
so in the ceaseless surge and tumult 
of a great city. A man may be 
famous there to-day, and utterly for- 
gotten to-morrow. 

Clinton was still in great measure 
a stranger, and business was slow to 
come ; and what did come was far 
from remunerative. The days that 
followed what he had pronounced 
“his success,” failed to make any 
considerable addition to his resour- 
ces. On the contrary, they made 
heavy draughts upon them. With 
money once more in his pocket, he 
had given way to certain extrava- 
gances that were entirely natural, 
but, under the circumstances, hardly 
prudent. He had discovered that 
his country-made garments were not 
altogether in style. A successful 
lawyer ought at least to be in the 
fashion, and as a consequence, a new 


suit was ordered. He had taken an 
office on a lower floor, but at a 
higher rent. He had sought out a 
boarding-house, which, without be- 
ing exactly first-class, was expensive. 
The result of all this was, that be- 
fore many days had gone round 
without bringing anything that was 
especially encouraging, he had be- 
gun once more somewhat dubiously 
to consider the possibility of empty 
pockets. 

In no very pleasant mood he was 
one day employed in meditating upon 
the prospect before him, when a 
large, official-looking envelope was 
placed in his hand. Eagerly open- 
ing it, he read the following : 

My dear Sir : After the comparison we 
have had of our political views, and learn- 
ing what I have of the valuable and unre- 
quited services rendered by your respected 
father to our common party, I take the 
liberty of sending you, without consulta- 
tion, a commission as Attorney to the 

Commission. The salary is not large — one 
hundred dollars per month — and the labor 
at times will be considerable ; but I would 
advise the acceptance of the trust. 

At the same time, should your engage- 
ments permit, I would request the pleasure 
of your company at my residence to-mor- 
row evening, when I expect a party of gen- 
tlemen to dine with me, only a few friends. 
Dinner to be served at eight. 

Very truly your friend, 

Barton Seacbist. 

To Clinton Maintland , Esq. 

The accompanying commission, 
which bore the broad seal of the 
city of New York, was, as might 
have been expected, a most timely 
and welcome arrival ; but the com- 
munication itself excited conflicting 
emotions. Nothing could have been 
more grateful to Clinton than the 


FIVE HUN DEED MAJORITY. 


39 


compliment conveyed — not even the 
kindness which drove a haunting 
spectre from his path. But the invi- 
tation to the Seacrist residence was 
not without its terrors. He had 
more than once looked at the impos- 
ing up-town mansion of the great 
sachem from a respectful distance, 
with feelings of the profoundest awe 
forming vague pictures of the possi- 
ble splendors within. So far, he 
had made no attempt to enter city 
society, and all its fashionable state 
and ceremony were, in consequence, 
still a dim and vexing mystery. The 
circumstances under which he was 
now called upon to penetrate it, 
were especially embarrassing. The 
gentlemen he would meet — “ a few 
friends ” — would doubtless be the 
most distinguished and elegant the 
metropolis afforded. And then Kate 
Seacrist, of whose beauty and ac- 
complishments he had heard so much 
— for everything appertaining to that 
family was of deep interest to him — 
but whom he had never seen, would 
be there. The thought almost took 
his breath away. Nevertheless, the 
emergency had to be met. He at 
least congratulated himself on his 
new clothes, about which he had 
had his misgivings. Now his regret 
was that he had not made them 
the occasion of a more liberal out- 
lay. 

More than one of my readers 
knows experimentally through what 
tribulations my hero passed in reach- 
ing the scene of his first city dinner- 
party — the long and veritable purga- 
tory of anticipation— the doubts and 
agonies concerning dress — the fears 
and perils of the way— especially if, 


in approaching the place of opera- 
tions, a conveyance of the people's line 
is patronized, into which persons of all 
descriptions will persist in crowding 
and seating themselves without re- 
gard to their neighbors’ wardrobe — 
the walk of the last block, underta- 
ken on purpose to see if everything 
is in exact order, and then the awful 
plunge into the dreadful glare within, 
worse, infinitely, than a leap into the 
coldest of cold water. 

Fortunately for Clinton, he was 
met on his entrance by the head of 
the house, who warmly seized his 
hand and gave him a most cor- 
dial greeting. 

“ Glad to see you, Mr. Faintland ; 
walk in and make yourself at home 
— perfectly at home — only a few 
friends. This is Mr. Scratchal, of 
the Bocket. He knows everybody, 
and will point out the lions. Mr. 
Scratchal, this is my friend Mr. 
Paintland. ” 

And while Barton Seacrist hur- 
ried away to welcome the next comer, 
Clinton was conscious of bowing in 
a confused sort of way to the man 
who supported the dignity of that 
well-known journal, the BocJcet. 

Everything, for the first few mo- 
ments, was a crush of light and lus- 
tre, the radiance that beamed and 
streamed from a bewildering profu- 
sion of golden decoration which even 
the country-raised youth, in a short 
time, could not help feeling to be 
over-elaborate and oppressive. 

His first impression of the men by 
whom he found himself surrounded, 
when he had sufficiently accustomed 
himself to the brilliant apartments 
to begin the study of details, wa3 


40 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


one of surprise, if not of disap- 
pointment. They, somehow, did not 
have that distinguished bearing he 
had expected to see. They lolled in 
their seats, and their voices sounded 
strangely loud and unmusical. One 
or two expressions reached his ears 
which he could scarcely believe pos- 
sible in such a place. In the dis- 
tance were two or three female figures 
of which he could at first form no 
verj' definite idea. 

Mr. Scratchal was a young man, 
with a sunken chest, hollow cheeks, 
deep-set eyes, a husky voice, and 
very red hair and moustache; but he 
was friendly and inclined to be com- 
municative. 

“ That man with the large nose 
and heavy beard is Alderman Skipp. 
He is the owner of Lady Jane.” 

“Of ” 

“ The fastest stepper on the Lane. 
Not much on horse, hey ?” 

Clinton confessed his ignorance in 
that department of zoology. 

“We of the Rocket have to know 
everything — everything, from horses 
to preachers.” 

And the man of encyclopedical 
information laughed a short, hollow 
laugh. 

“The big man he is talking to,” 
he resumed, “ is Grulls. You know 
all about Grulls.” 

“ I believe not. ” 

“ The great liquor man; has places 
in the Bowery, in Houston, in Cher- 
ry, in the Five Points — all over the 
city. Is said to have cleared a mil- 
lion last year.” 

“I wouldn’t mind goin you a 
thousan on my mare agin your trot- 
ters eny day you’ll bring ’em out. 


D — n me, how’s that for high?” 
unctiously exclaimed the owner of 
Lady Jane. 

“It’s my money,” confidently re- 
sponded Grulls. 

Whereupon the gentlemen smiled 
characteristically. 

“ What are those men doing here ?” 
asked Clinton, with a look of undis- 
guised amazement. 

“ Doing here ?” repeated the Rock- 
et's representative, with equal aston- 
ishment in his cavernous eyes at 
such a question. 

“ Oh, I see ! You’re new in town. 
Not posted yet. Well, I’ll tell you : 
We of the Rocket understand it all. 
They’re here because Barton Sea- 
crist needs them. They control votes. 
That’s the reason. If they didn’t, 
Seacrist wouldn’t have them about, 
you may depend on it. He’s won- 
derful sharp — knows his men every 
time. It doesn’t make much dif- 
ference to him what the man is, so 
that he’s useful. Seacrist ain’t a- 
going to have anybody about him 
that he hasn’t got use for. He 
don’t keep any dead-heads. What 
you’re intended for I don’t know, 
and I guess you don’t yet ; but 
you’ll find out in time. These gather • 
ings are all political. There’s nobo- 
dy here but politicians. Everything 
that Seacrist does is political, and it 
means something. There’s something 
in the wind now, you may depend 
on it. We’ll see the point before 
the affair is over.” 

As Clinton made no reply, being 
too much taken aback by the state- 
ments to which he had just listened, 
and which he was disposed to regard 
! as exaggerated at least, to have any- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


41 


thing to say. Scratclial went on 
with the list of notables present. 

“ That tall man with the very red 
face, is Senator Bloom. He’s a 
Tammany Sachem, a Seacrist man, 
and has a rich place in the Court 
House.” 

“And that pleasant, gentlemanly 
man with whom he is conversing?” 

“ Oh, that’s Smooth — Cinnamon 
Smooth.” 

“ What, the great Kadical leader?” 

“ The same.” 

“ At such a gathering ? — I’m sur- 
prised.” 

“ Wouldn’t be surprised at all, if 
you only knew what we of the Rocket 
know. Smooth has some of the fat- 
test contracts under the city govern- 
ment.” 

‘‘And the two men with their 
heads together just beyond ?” 

“Padding — nothing but padding. 
They hold city sinecures — places 
from which they draw salary and 
where somebody else does the work. 
Their business is at primaries and 
elections.” 

“ But there’s a man worth looking 
at — that little man just beyond,” con- . 
tinued the persistent journalist. 
“That’s Scourge, of the Sunday 
Plague ; and, I tell you, lie’s a sting- 
er. He’s been a party to more libels 
than any other man in New York. 
He’s been horsewhipped, and knock- 
ed down, and trampled upon in the 
street, I don’t know how many times. 
Any other man would have been 
dead. Oh, he’s a desperate one — 
Scourge is. You had better take a 
good look at him.” 

Clinton did take a good look at 
him, but saw nothing extraordinary | 


— only a man of insignificant frame, 
with pointed features and a very cold 
eye, sitting off silently and moodily 
by himself — so that he suffered his 
eyes to wander on until they rested 
upon a group of persons collected 
about an individual who was talking 
volubly — sometimes sitting down and 
sometimes on his feet — and who was 
clearly a centre of attraction. 

“ Who is that over there, with all 
those people about him ? That noisy, 
conceited, fidgety ” 

“ Why, don’t you know who that 
is ? That’s Windsham.” 

Clinton was astonished. He knew 
all about Windsham — the great 
Windsham. Nor was he the only 
one thus favored. The public gener- 
ally knew Windsham. He gave it 
abundant opportunity to do so. 
There had for years been scarcely a 
notable demonstration in New York 
— it made but little difference to what 
end — in which he had not been con- 
spicuous. No meeting of the people 
was complete until he had had some- 
thing to say. He had appeared in 
many roles, and had filled them all 
with satisfaction to others — and to 
himself, as they had increased his 
notoriety. He had been a professor 
of many doctrines, and a doctor of 
many professions. Law, medicine, 
and divinity were equally suited to 
his hands, and had employed them 
by turns. He was poet, philosopher, 
philanthropist, and demagogue. And 
in all his occupations he did every- 
thing so well that he invariably 
reached a point just a little below ex- 
cellence. The only thing in which 
he failed was the one thing for which 
he chiefly sought a reputation — wit. 


42 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJOBITY. 


He jested so inevitably, and some- 
times so execrabfy, that the public 
always laughed when he appeared 
before it — if not at his jokes, at him- 
self. But while he did many things 
creditably, he got credit for more 
things which he did not do. Every 
jest, every epigram, every suggestion, 
which nobody else would acknow- 
ledge, was carried to his account. He 
could wear any skin. Whatever was 
of unknown parentage, was said to 
be Yvhndshamistic. 

Of course he was a politician ; 
and, with the same versatility he had 
show r n elsewhere, he had gone the 
entire round of the parties. Having- 
gained no secure footing anywhere, 
his career threatened to end in total 
failure, when, as a last resort, he had 
attached himself to the fortunes of 
Barton Seacrist. The combination 
was profitable to both. Windsham ’s 
fluency — not to say flippancy — of 
tongue and pen — his audacity and 
his dash — made him most valuable 
as an instrument in the hands of a 
man like Seacrist. The consequence 
was that the two had become almost 
inseparable — the public even sup- 
posed there -was a bond of affection 
between them — and had prospered 
together. Seacrist secured Wind- 
sham’s loyalty by giving him abund- 
ant opportunities to advance his 
interests and gratify his vanity ; and 
Windsham returned the favor by an 
untiring, almost slavish, devotion to 
his patron’s schemes. Otherwise 
there was not even confidence be- 
tween them. 

Clinton Maintland, with the prone- 
ness of youth to accept cleverness 
for genius and notoriety for fame, 


had formed an exalted opinion of the 
man he was then beholding. In his 
stilted commonplaces he had seen 
what lie believed to be the declara- 
tions of true greatness. His highest 
ambition had been to become an- 
other Windsham. 

He now saw before him a tall and 
sinewy man with, a pinched and 
puckered face — wholly whiskerless — 
of such muscular activity that it 
could not possibly keep still. It was 
constantly changing its expression 
by the shutting of the eye, the pout- 
ing of a lip, or some other equally 
outre manifestation which seemed 
intended to assist in the delivery of 
an endless flow of words. The eye 
was small, bright, and cunning. The 
face was sallow ; the hair a sandy 
tissue, long, limp, and irregular, and 
just touched with grey. There was 
abundance of meaning in the counte- 
nance ; but its changes were so fre- 
quent and confusing — so compound- 
ed of intelligence and grimace — that 
it was impossible to determine what 
was its prevailing cast. 

So puzzled was Clinton in deciding 
which feature was the index to the 
man’s supposed greatness, that he 
heard not a word of his companion’s 
remarks on two or three local cele- 
brities that in their turn engaged his 
attention. 

“Ah, there’s the one to interest 
you !” 

So much emphasis did Scratchal 
lay upon the words, that Clinton’s 
attention was at once turned to the 
person indicated. 

“ The one, I mean, talking to the 
lady in white.” 

The person referred to was Wind- 


FIVE HUN DEED MAJORITY. 


43 


sham’s opposite in every particular. 
He was a heavy, though not particu- 
larly tall, man, with a great, massive 
head, on which was piled a shock of 
coarse black hair, connecting with a 
suit of equally sombre whiskers that 
swept completely round the chin. 
Within this ebony frame was a 
broad, compact, and sensual, but by 
no means uninteresting, face. It was 
the infallible cynosure to a strong, 
clear intellect, a resolute, even stub- 
born will, a measure of reserve 
amounting almost to moroseness, and 
a combination of the most powerful 
human passions. The eyes were 
large, but retained a shadow of sul- 
lenness, even as they looked steadily 
and admiringly into the face of a 
small, elegant, and sprightly female 
with whom their possessor was con- 
versing. 

Scratchal was not mistaken in sup- 
posing that he was calling attention 
to one in whom his companion would 
be interested. Clinton forgot all 
about Windsham as he gazed upon 
the strong, burly individual just de- 
scribed — or rather, upon him and 
his neighbor ; for the slight, elegant, 
and, in her airy vestments, seeming- 
ly almost ethereal creature, with 
whom he was holding converse, and 
that great man with his eye upon 
her, keeping her apparently by some 
magnetic connection from flitting 
away as the dancing buoy is held 
by the anchor deep down below, 
made a tableau well worth his 
study. 

“ A most wonderful man, I tell you 
— a regular phenomenon,” rattled on 
the Rochet man, without in the least 
realizing his companion’s medita- 


tions. “There is no one m New 
York ” 

“Who is he?” 

“Abel Cummager.” 

Clinton gave a start. He knew 
Abel Cummager perfectly by repu- 
tation — knew him as the most exten- 
sive, the most successful, and the 
most dangerous panderer to the fol- 
lies of the young and dissolute in 
New York. His gambling hells were 
the scandal of the city ; and had 
been the means of dragging thou- 
sands down to ruin. 

“ A most extraordinary character, 
I assure you,” persisted Scratchal. 
“ He has never met his equal, when 
a half million was at stake. He is 
just as cool, just as deliberate, as if 
the amount wasn’t more than so 
many farthings. ” 

“ But what brings him here ?” 

“Politics. Don’t you know that 
Cummager is the leader of the Mo- 
hicans, as Seacrist is of Tammany ? 
They are looked upon as the two 
best politicians in New York.” 

“But I thought that Tammany 
and the Mohicans, although belong- 
ing to the same national party, were 
bitterly hostile to each other.” 

“ So they are ; but it’s Barton 
Seacrist’s tactics to consort with 
those seemingly opposed to him. He 
never has a gathering of his friends, 
but some of his so-called enemies 
are present. We of the Rochet 
understand it perfectly.” 

And the little man again laughed 
at his own wit and penetration. 

“ But is Abel Cummager untrue to 
the organization of which he is the 
reputed head ?” 

“ Not at all. He has several times 


44 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


defeated Tammany, in spite of Bar- 
ton Seacrist’s most elaborate prepa- 
rations.” 

“ Can there be any business con- 
nection ?” 

“ None. Barton Seacrist is a man 
who risks nothing unnecessarily. 
Abel Cummager risks everything.” 

“ Then, what can be the link be- 
tween them ?” 

“ That is the one thing which we 
of the Rocket can’t decide. We have 
had to give up the point.” 

“ Is he — Abel Cummager, I mean 
— married ?” 

“Yes — no. He has a wife, but 
doesn’t live with her. There is some 
talk of a divorce.” 

The longer Clinton watched the 
two people conversing so familiarly 
together, the more interested, and at 
the same time the more dissatisfied, 
he became. There was something 
about the appearance of the girl — 
for she did not look to be over twenty 
— which seemed to him to be pecu- 
liarly engaging. She was not merely 
bright and beautiful ; but, in her 
snowy evening costume, she had 
about her an air of unsuspecting 
innocence and purity — and there she 
was in close communication with 
Abel Cummager. 

“ Who is she ?” he at last inquired, 
with sudden emphasis. 

“She!” exclaimed Scratchal, who 
had, meanwhile, been babbling about 
half a dozen other parties, and was 
then busily expatiating upon the 
points, strong and weak, of a great 
bearded lawyer on the opposite side 
of the room. “ What she ?” 

“The angel there by the side of 
that devil — Abel Cummager.” 


“ Why, don’t you know ? That is 
Miss Seacrist.” 

What farther meditations Clinton 
Maintland might have been tempted 
to indulge on the strength of this 
additional information, were here 
prevented by a man of extremely 
gross demeanor and offensive bear- 
ing, who came swaggering towards 
the point where he was sitting, and 
who excited some attention by the 
freedom and boisterousness of his 
remarks. 

“ Who is he ?” asked Clinton, with 
a look of disgust. 

“ The worst man in New York — 
Dennis Hargate.” 

Clinton did not need any further 
enlightenment on the character of 
the man before him. His deeds were 
entirely too notorious to have es- 
caped his knowledge. The keeper of 
a low drinking place in one of the 
worst quarters of the city, his den 
was the resort of a desperate class 
of ruffians, in whose exploits he had 
frequently taken a leading part. 
Although often arrested for his law- 
less acts, Hargate had, in some un- 
explained manner, always managed 
to escape punishment. His gang 
was recognized as the terror of law- 
abiding people. 

“Hargate — is it possible that he is 
here ?” 

“ And why not? He controls more 
votes than any other man in the 
city, and has always been true to 
Tammany — has saved it the day more 
than once when the election was 
over.” 

“ How is that ?” 

“Simply by smashing the boxes 
containing the opposition majorities. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


45 


I’m sure there’s nothing so remarka- 
ble in that.” 

But, by this time, the subject of 
Scratchal’s comments, having paused 
long enough to pass, in his familiar 
way, a complimentary observation 
or two with Skipp and Grulls, had 
reached the point where our friends 
were seated. Here his eye fell upon 
Clinton, who, as a stranger, at once 
arrested his attention. 

“ Ah ! who have we here ?” he ex- 
claimed in a rude, insolent tone, 
coolly staring our hero in the face. 

Scratchal promptly arose and intro- 
duced Clinton as Mr. Saintland. 

“ Saintland ! ” repeated Hargate, 
with a coarse laugh. “A pretty 
crowd for the saints to be found in. 
What political party, Mr. Saint-what- 
ever-you-call-yourself, do you belong 
to?” 

“ I belong to myself,” calmly re- 
plied Clinton, disinclined to any fa- 
miliarity with the ruffian. 

“Ah! disposed to be sharp, are 
you? — need taking down a peg or 
two. See here, Mr. Jack-en-apes, do 
you know who you’re talking to ?” 

“ I should infer, from what I have 
heard of the history of Dennis Har- 
gate, that I am talking to about the 
greatest criminal in New York.” 

Hargate’s countenance for an in- 
stant was as black as night. Then, 
quickly breaking out into what was 
nearer a roar than a laugh, he 
exclaimed : 

“ Pretty good for a greenhorn, I’ll 
swear! Here, Mr. Saint- whatever- 
you-are, here’s my hand.” 

Clinton had risen to his feet, and 
was still standing. Although con- 
trolling his temper, he was thorough- 


ly incensed. He therefore coolly 
looked down upon the member Har- 
gate extended towards him, without 
making any movement to accept 
it. 

“ What !” exclaimed Hargate with 
an oath, as all the evil fires of his 
nature again flashed into his face, 
“Won’t shake hands? Then, my 
suckling, if you won’t take my open 
hand, you shall have it shutl” and 
he drew back to strike. 

The ruffian had met his match in 
courage, and more than his match 
in strength and self-possession. 
Without moving an inch, Clinton 
instantly put himself in a posture of 
defence, and looked calmly down 
upon his adversary, for he was the 
taller man of the two. 

Hargate, as he met Clinton’s eye, 
instinctively recognized his own infe- 
riority, and hesitated to strike. His 
indecision was fatal to his purpose. 
Before he had recovered his resolu- 
tion, the hand of Barton Seacrist — 
for by this time the altercation had 
attracted the attention of every one 
present — was laid upon his shoul- 
der, and the sachem’s voice hissed in 
his ear : 

“ Back — instantly back I say ! How 
dare you, in my house !” 

Had Hargate been a dog and 
Seacrist his master, the great, burly 
ruffian could not have more quickly 
succumbed to the voice of that phy- 
sically feeble old man. His counte- 
nance fell, his fist relaxed its tension 
and he shrunk away, seating himself 
moodily in a remote part of the 
room. 

As for Clinton, I have already de- 
scribed his splendid physical and 


46 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


facial development, but never before 
had he appeared so magnificent as 
at that moment he stood the centre 
of attraction to every eye in the 
apartment. His triumph could not 
have been more complete. And yet 
it was destined to a sudden abate- 
ment, for just then, as he glanced 
about him^ his eyes suddenly En- 
countered the large and sparkling 
orbs of Kate Seacrist — the same he 
had been admiring at a distance — 
now but a few steps from him. Al- 
though the glance they gave him 
was far from one of displeasure, he 
instantly colored with embarrass- 
ment, and his eyes sank in visible 
confusion. 

Kate whispered a word in her 
father’s ear, and the next moment 
was by him formally introduced to 
Clinton — the latter as Mr. Shaint- 
land. 

“ I have heard my father speak of 
Mr. Maintland so often that I have 
long desired this pleasure,” said Kate, 
with a smile and a tone of voice 
that would have been most grateful 
to Clinton, even if the correct pro- 
nunciation of his name had not car- 
ried the confirmation of her words. 

Clinton stammered something in 
reply — he hardly knew what. 

“As dinner has been announced, 
Mr. Maintland,” calmly remarked 
Kate, “I shall be happy to show 
you the way.” 

Had not Clinton been utterly be- 
wildered, he would at once have re- 
sponded to such a distinct intima- 
tion; but before he could sufficient- 
ly rally his senses to command him- 
self, Abel Cummager had presented 
his arm to Miss Seacrist, and tri- 


umphantly led her to the dining 
apartment. 

But laggard in gallantry as he 
had proved, Clinton did not pass 
out of the young lady’s memory. 
When seated at the table, she put 
her hand upon the back of a vacant 
chair next to her, the one upon the 
other side being occupied by Cum- 
mager, and, as Clinton approached, 
she smilingly signified with upraised 
finger that he should occupy it. 
With a flushed brow and a rapidly 
beating heart, he accepted the place. 

The dinner and the dinner talk 
were what might have been expect- 
ed. Alderman Skipp related some 
wonderful exploits of Lady Jane, 
and Grulls sang the praises of his 
trotters. Both were made happy 
in the end by the wager of another 
“ thousan ” on their respective road- 
sters. Cinnamon Smooth said some 
very pleasant things in the way of 
small talk. He was a most amiable 
man. Scourge hissed a few cutting 
remarks, which were accepted by all 
present as seasoning to the salad. 
As to the parties who had been de- 
scribed as “padding — nothing but 
padding,” they padded themselves to 
most excellent purpose. But the 
life of the table was Windsham, 
who scintillated at a most wonderful 
rate, saying very many things which 
kept the company in good humor, 
some of which were brilliant, and 
more of which were silly. As for 
Barton Seacrist, he proved himself 
a most accomplished entertainer, no- 
ticing everybody, agreeing with eve- 
rybody, and making everybody feel 
perfectly at home. 

But the whole of it, whether con- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


4 ? 


sisting of wise tilings or foolish things, 
sour things or amiable things, was a 
blank to Clinton. He had ears but 
for one person at the table — his cle- 
ver little neighbor, who, taking ad- 
vantage of the taciturnity of her 
attendant on the other hand, devot- 
ed herself so successfully to the 
amusement of her new acquaint- 
ance, that he was speedily convinced 
she was the most beautiful, accom- 
plished and agreeable person he had 
ever met. And when, as at an early 
hour they did, Kate and the other 
ladies — three or four in number, who 
were introduced simply for proprie- 
ty’s sake — retired, he was left in a 
state of most absorbing, but deli- 
cious, mystification. 

Then came the toasts. Alderman 
Skipp responded for the City Gov- 
ernment, although Windsham, who 
was a licensed punster on all such 
occasions, suggested that that was a 
subject that had better be Skipped. 
He did not get a good start, and 
floundered fearfully, until, in his 
confusion, he stumbled upon a horse 
simile, when he went ahead in tri- 
umph. With their host for groom 
and Windsham for jockey, he had 
no doubt they would all arrive safely 
under the string by a head — (“A 
fearful figure 1” from Windsham,) — 
and that Tammany would sweep the 
stakes. He concluded amid great 
applause. 

Grulls, the great liquor dealer, 
spoke for the commercial interests. 
His sales had been much larger dur- 
ing the preceding twelve months 
than ever before, and he thought the 
country was on the highway to pros- 
perity — a result he attributed largely 


to the wisdom of the administration 
of which their host was a member. 
As he concluded, Windsham suggest- 
ed that he took a wine-colored view 
of the subject. 

Cinnamon Smooth talked benevo- 
lently about an era of good feeling, 
and sat down after creating the im- 
pression on all present that it was an 
excellent thing to have him among 
them. Windsham said his remarks 
had a delicious flavor. 

Senator Bloom, being called upon, 
sang a song which Windsham de- 
clared was the flower of the occasion, 
being “the nosegay of a perpetual 
bloomer ” — the sentiment and appro- 
priateness of which can be inferred 
from the chorus, which was as fol- 
lows : 

Oil, what is the use of n public-fed goose, 

If we, the elected, are doomed to starva- 
tion? 

Then let us sing truce to all party abuse, 

And agree to divide the municipal ration. 

Scourge, of the Sunday Plague, in 
speaking for the Press, scattered 
some ugly shafts about ; but by that 
time the wine had so far mellowed 
all hearts that the sting was not 
felt. 

The men of padding applauded 
everything most lustily. 

The evening was well spent when 
Barton Seacrist arose and entered 
upon a very pleasant and cunningly 
worded speech, the substance of 
which was that he loved all members 
of the great Conservative family, 
w r hether they belonged to what might 
be called his own household or not — 
that there had unfortunately been 
divisions in the party which had re- 


48 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


suited in disaster ; but be sincerely 
hoped that an era of concord was ap- 
proaching ; and he would, therefore, 
embrace that auspicious occasion to 
declare his high esteem for a most 
worthy and patriotic body of Con- 
servative citizens with which he had 
formerly differed, and of which a 
distinguished representative was then 
present — the Mohicans. 

Instantly all eyes were turned to 
where Abel Cummager was supposed 
to be sitting — but his chair was va- 
cant. He had just joined the ladies 
at their music, having retired so 
quietly that no one had noticed his 
departure. 

With a shade of chagrin which he 
could not wholly conceal, Barton 
Seacrist discovered the unexpected 
vacancy ; but at the same instant his 
eyes fell upon Clinton Maintland, 
who was sitting next beyond, and 
with ready tact he changed the line 
of his discourse by remarking that 
he saw before him a representative 
of one of the leading professions — 
the law — who, he had no doubt, was 
destined to do honor to himself, his 
calling, and the political party to 
which he belonged. He would in- 
troduce to his friends a rising young 
Conservative, Mr. Starryland. 

“ Starryland !” said Windsham, 
“by all means let us hear from 
Starryland !” 

Clinton, who had been in a brown 
study since Kate Seacrist’s depar- 
ture, caring nothing for the half- 
maudlin proceedings about him, was 
taken completely by surprise at the 
mention of what he knew to be 
intended for his name. It was how- 
ever necessary that he should say 


something in response to so flatter- 
ing a notice ; and he succeeded in 
giving expression to some generali- 
ties, which secured him, when he 
took his seat, a round of applause 
from every one present except Har- 
gate, who, sitting at a distant part 
of the table, glared upon him with a 
scowl of the fiercest and most unre- 
lenting hate. 

But now came th« event of the 
evening, showing, as it did, what, in 
the language Scratchal had employed, 
“ was in the wind.” Windsham, being 
called upon, began with some amus- 
ing remarks about the pudding, 
and the pie being reserved for the 
last of the feast, but ingeniously 
diverted his remarks as he proceed- 
ed, into a glowing panegyric upon 
their host and entertainer, whose 
public life he reviewed and eulo- 
gized at considerable length. 

“He knows nothing of the senti- 
ment I am about to propose,” said 
the speaker in conclusion. “ The 
suggestion comes from my own 
heart ” — here he laid his hand upon 
his breast — “but the impulse is so 
strong, and the occasion so befitting, 
that I cannot resist its utterance ! 
Gentlemen, fill your glasses ; I pro- 
pose the health of our honored and 
beloved host, the next Mayor of 
New York.” 

Instantly the men of padding be- 
gan to cheer vociferously. The en- 
thusiasm was contagious. Skipp and 
Grulls fairly danced with excitement. 
Little Scourge mounted a chair to 
be on an equality with his fellows. 
Even Cinnamon Smooth — the quiet, 
unimpassioned Smooth, Badical as 
he was — was swept into the current, 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


49 


and was soon applauding with all 
his might. 

During the excitement Barton Sea- 
crist sat with a surprised, half-stunned 
expression of countenance. He did 
not respond at once. He was for 
some time too much affected to 
speak. At last, with an effort he 
arose and began slowly, and with 
visible emotion, to give utterance to 
his feelings. He spoke well, having 
repeated the same speech several 
times before. He first declared his 
surprise at the proposition to which 
they had just listened ; then his 
thanks for the motives which had 
prompted it ; then the reluctance he 
felt in listening to such a suggestion, 
even from the lips of his best and 
dearest friends. He was now an old 
man — he had served the public long, 
and, he trusted, acceptably — he had 
long been desirous of retiring from 
public life — he had lost the ambition 
he once felt, and preferred to give 
way to younger and better men. 
What he now wanted was repose. 
His friends should not ask of him to 
make further sacrifice. No, his 
friends 

He could proceed no further ; but, 
covering his face to hide his emo- 
tion, he sat down completely over- 
come. Instantly the men of pad- 
ding covered their faces. Then 
Skipp, then Grulls, then Bloom, then 
Cinnamon Smooth, and even Scourge 
of the Sunday Plague , followed by 
all the others in succession, covered 
their faces. Windsham wept audi- 
bly. It was a most affecting spectacle. 

During the scenes just described, 
Abel Cummager had stood by a 
door opening from an adjoining room, 


a spectator of the whole. He smiled 
coolly, even sneeringly, and at the 
conclusion of so much as has been 
related, turned on his heel and w r as 
soon chatting pleasantly with Kate 
Seacrist. 

The next morning’s Rocket con- 
tained a graphic account of the fore- 
going proceedings, and in the same 
number of the same paper was a 
leading article nominating Seacrist 
for Mayor of the city. He was in a 
fair way to make one of the “points” 
he had in contemplation. 

But what of Clinton Maintland? 

One of the saddest experiences to 
a young man is to part with illu- 
sions he has cherished concerning 
men whom, without personal know- 
ledge, he has made the heroes of his 
boyish imagination. His first hu- 
man idols are invariably members of 
his own sex. Of these, because of 
some imputed excellence, real or fan- 
cied, he forms conceptions, which, 
although gross exaggerations, have 
all the sacredness of reality. His 
faith in their genuineness is illimita- 
ble. To learn the truth — as the 
truth too often is — to discover from 
actual contact that the supposed divi- 
nities are but men, and possibly men 
of a low order, with the exception of 
one strong trait — is among the seve- 
rest trials of life, and often goes far- 
ther than anything else to destroy 
confidence in the foundations of hu- 
man character. 

But if it is hard for men to part 
with illusions concerning men, to fill 
the vacuum often come the most de- 
lightful impressions concerning wo- 
men. About the same time that a 
young man ordinarily discovers that 


50 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


he’ has Deen misled in his estimates 
of certain members of his own sex, 
he adopts with equal confidence the 
conviction that all excellence dwells 
in some member of the other sex. 
This illusion — if illusion it should 
prove, and as such be dispelled — 
usually lasts until the man has 
learned that life is full of disap- 
pointments, and, on the principle 
that “ what can’t be helped must be 
borne,” has made up his mind to 
make the best of it. 

That night, as Clinton Maintland 
went forth from the splendid home 
which had honored him as a guest, 
his mind was undergoing a strange, 
but not wholly disappointing, muta- 
tion. His eyes had been sorrow- 
fully opened to the true character of 
men whom he had before profoundly 
reverenced, but a new glamour in 
turn was rapidly overspreading them. 
An image was before them, which he 
found it easy to invest with all pos- 
sible charms, and the question arose 
in his mind, whether even he might 
not yet possess the germ of that 
sweet picture. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE PARTY TO TAKE CARE OF HIM. 

Perry Doubleman was postmaster 
at Willowford, where he kept the 
village store ; and had reputably sus- 
tained that official character for well 
on to a dozen years. 

The office “ paid ” a salary of two 
hundred dollars per annum, with 
some small additional perquisites. 
The plum, certainly, was not large ; 
but it had, on that account, been 


none the less zealously sought after 
by quite a number of deserving, but 
sadly neglected, individuals, whose 
claims on the government — in all 
cases very strong — consisted of long 
and faithful services to their respect- 
ive parties. And yet, strange to say, 
the lucky incumbent had originally 
secured the prize, and subsequently 
retained it through several changes 
of administration, not because he 
was, but because he was not, a poli- 
tician. 

Perry Doubleman was what, among 
party men, is called “a trimmer.” 
His policy was to smil§ . upon all 
sides, and say nothing. He never 
committed himself — until the election 
was over — and then only by cau- 
tiously assuring the leaders of the 
winning party that, if he had voted 
— he always had business abroad on 
election day — he should have taken 
great satisfaction in supporting their 
ticket — which was true enough, as 
he would have cheerfully done as 
much for either side. And so Double- 
man continued to enjoy the two hun- 
dred dollars of patronage to the im- 
measurable disgust of a small army 
of very meritorious and very hungry 
patriots. 

But what contributed more to 
Perry Doubleman’s tenure in office 
than even his skill in balancing be- 
tween parties, was the fact that his 
store had become the recognized 
rendezvous of all the politicians in 
the town. Here they would assem- 
ble as chance or inclination directed 
— their presence always being justi- 
fied by a convenient inquiry for a 
letter — and discuss the claims and 
prospects of their respective factions 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


51 


to tlieir hearts’ content. Many and 
heated were the controversies that 
ensued, as partisans of different 
schools encountered each other upon 
this common ground. But warm as 
their discussions became, Perry 
Doubleman never interfered — never 
ventured upon an opinion of his 
own — but would listen and smile 
upon both sides with the most gra- 
cious impartiality, making each be- 
lieve that it had fully secured his 
sympathy. The consequence was 
that all sorts of politicians came in 
time to feel that they had in his 
store a vested interest, and as long 
as the discretion of the proprietor 
justified the universal claim that was 
set up to his allegiance, they were 
not disposed to relinquish a privi- 
lege they prized so highly. 

Among those most regular in their 
visits to the Post Office was Hugh 
Maintland. His correspondence was 
limited, but here he always found a 
newspaper to read, or some acquaint- 
ance with whom he could discuss 
political matters for an hour, al- 
though sometimes his farm was the 
sufferer thereby. To quite a little 
circle of sympathizers in his views, 
who were accustomed to make Perry 
Doubleman’s store their rallying 
point, Hugh Maintland was a sort of 
political oracle. Surrounded by these 
men he was happy, because in their 
society he found both congeniality 
and appreciation. 

Two of their number only need be 
named. 

Amos Grupp was a farmer of sub- 
stance, owning his own place — and 
there were few better in the town — 
who had money both in bank and on 


bond and mortgage. He was ex- 
tremely Conservative in his views of 
public matters, regarding all taxes as 
the spoil of extortioners’ robbery, , 
and honestly believed his own pre- 
dictions that the country was going 
straight to the dogs. 

Jonas Phips was the fortunate 
holder of two or three petty offices, 
from which, as he was a very small 
man, he succeeded in obtaining a 
stinted living. As he owed his offi- 
cial positions, and consequently his 
bread and butter, entirely to the 
political party with which he acted, 
it could not possibly have had a more 
zealous and officious supporter. 

Jtarely did a day go by in which 
the three men — Maintland, Grupp, 
and Phips — were not to be seen in 
front of Doubleman’s counter, read- 
ing from some favorite journal, or 
comparing opinions on political mat- 
ters, in which, as they were all 
members of the same party, there 
was seldom anything like disagree- 
ment. They were the warmest of 
personal, as well as political, friends. 

“'If the country is to be saved at 
all, it must be by a speedy return to 
first principles. It is our only hope. 
Each day of trial — for our govern- 
ment is yet an experiment of doubt- 
ful issue — shows that our advance 
has been from bad to worse. What 
do we see about us but corruption in 
office and extravagance in private 
life — the inevitable fruits of Radical 
rule and teaching — and these things 
are pointed to as proofs of progress. 
What folly ! What madness ! No 
system, however perfect in theory, 
can long endure such degeneracy in 
practice. Oh, for a return to the 


52 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


lights and the lives of our fathers — 
to another administration by a Wash- 
ington, a Jefferson, or a Jackson !” 

As Hugh Maintland impressively 
read these words, which were the 
conclusion of a very lengthy article 
in a leading Conservative journal de- 
nunciatory of the principles and 
policy of the political opposition, he 
looked round upon his audience, 
consisting of Grupp, Phips, and 
three or four others of the same 
party, who happened to be assem- 
bled in Doubleman’s store, in such a 
way as to call for an expression of 
their views. 

“That’s the doctrine,” exclaimed 
Phips, with a forwardness and an 
energy characteristic of the man — 
“ precisely what I have been saying 
all the time.” 

“As true as preachin,” remarked 
Grupp, more tardily, but even more 
emphatically, than his predecessor. 
“ Things is, beyond a doubt, gittin a 
great deal worse than they was — 
spesly taxes. Yes, yes, it’s ” 

“ Unadulterated nonsense.” 

All eyes were naturally turned 
upon the author of this totally un- 
expected commentary, which was 
pronounced in a clear, authoritative 
voice ; and the majority of those 
present, including both Phips and 
Grupp, shrank back with manifest 
trepidation, as they discovered in 
the speaker Colonel Kortright, by all 
odds the richest and most important 
man in the town. 

Not so Hugh Maintland. With 
perfect composure he encountered 
the contemptuous glance of his 
landlord. He was even the first to 
speak. 


“So you do not approve of the 
sentiment, to which, if I am not 
mistaken, you have been a listener.” 

“ Approve of such trash ? — no. Of 
course not. The idea that we, who 
are making progress in every depart- 
ment, don’t know as well how to 
govern ourselves as our ancestors, 
who, although the radicals of their 
day, were practically centuries behind 
us — preposterous ! absurd !” 

The Colonel, irritated by the per- 
fect coolness of his tenant, spoke 
even more harshly than his disap- 
probation of the doctrine to which 
he had been listening, would have 
otherwise prompted. His discour- 
tesy, however, although perceived 
and keenly felt, produced no visible 
effect upon Maintland, who not only 
preserved an unruffled countenance, 
but deliberately rejoined : 

“ But you will hardly deny, I take 
it, Colonel, that there was more of 
virtue and patriotism among the 
founders of the government than is 
to be met with among the public 
men, taken as a body, of the present 
day?” 

“ Well — perhaps not — for the 
founders of the government were 
men of progressive ideas, and be- 
lieving in the possibility of national 
improvement, bent all their energies 
to the task of pushing their country 
forward, while, unfortunately, a large 
portion of the public men and rulers 
of the present day being Conserva- 
tives, and not believing there is any- 
thing more to be done for the coun- 
try, spend their time and energies in 
working for themselves. They are 
no better than the original Tories — 
the Conservatives of the Revolu- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


53 


tionary era — not a particle. Both 
should be set down as their coun- 
try’s enemies.” 

“ Then it would appear, Colonel, 
from your own admission and argu- 
ment, that the practical deduction 
from our Radical ancestors’ premises 
has not justified their patriotic ex- 
pectation. The result has been pro- 
gress backward — not forward. My 
original proposition, therefore, that 
as a people, we are politically dege- 
nerating, is sustained by your own 
words.” 

Mainland’s Conservative compa- 
nions, who, surprised by the unex- 
pected appearance of the adversary, 
had yielded the field at the first as- 
sault, began to pluck up heart as 
they saw the courage displayed by 
their leader, and at this point, exult- 
ing over what they believed to be 
the enemy’s discomfiture, broke into 
an audible smile, which nettled the 
proud and sensitive Kortright, even 
more than his adversary’s quiet self- 
possession. He however was not 
the man willingly to accept defeat — 
least of all from his own tenant, and 
one whom, as a “ Bourbon,” he poli- 
tically hated and despised. So he 
promptly, but in bad temper, re- 
newed the contest, simply parrying 
the point of attack. 

“ Your Conservatism, then, goes 
to the extent of opposing all politi- 
cal progress.” 

“ I deny,” replied Maintland, 
“ that there can be any progress in 
political principles. Rulers a thou- 
sand years ago were honest, and a 
thousand years hence they can be 
no more than honest. Measures 
have been always right or wrong, 


and they can never be anything 
more than right or wrong. Our 
fathers who laid the foundations of 
our governmental system, loved their 
country with all their heart, soul 
and strength, and our children can 
do no more — it will be well if they 
do as much. 

“ But, Colonel Kortright,” he con- 
tinued, “ as you claim to be a Pro- 
gressionist, and I am what you call 
an “ old fogy,” let us understand 
wherein we differ; or, in other words, 
what are your ideas of political pro- 
gress ? Do you disbelieve in any of 
the fundamental propositions of the 
Constitution which our fathers made 
for us ?” 

“No.” 

“Do you agree with those ad- 
vanced philosophers who would re- 
model the social system, making the 
continuance of the marriage relation, 
for instance, a simple matter of 
agreement between the parties ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Do you subscribe to the doc- 
trines of the Communists, and favor 
a reconstruction of the laws of pro- 
perty ?” 

“ No — most decidedly no I” 

“ Then you occupy my ground ?” 

This was said with a quiet smile, 
which could not be otherwise than 
annoying. But Maintland’s politi- 
cal sympathizers, whose spirits had 
been constantly rising throughout 
the controversy, even less consider- 
ate of their adversary’s feelings at 
this point, gave expression to their 
exultation by stamping their feet 
and clapping their hands in a most 
irritating, and certainly, far from 
civil manner. The demonstration 


54 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


was too much for Kortright’s excita- 
ble and haughty temper. Flushing 
red with anger, which he had so far 
with difficulty restrained, he now 
burst forth with : 

“ No sir, I don’t occupy your 
ground ; and let me tell you, Hugh 
Maintland, that there is some of my 
ground which you occupy, which 
had a great deal better be receiving 
your attention than the abominable 
doctrines you spend your time in 
teaching to the silly and unman- 
nerly rabble now about you. Do 
you understand that ?” , 

“ I understand, sir,” rejoined 
Maintland, springing to his feet and 
confronting Kortright, who had been 
standing during the conversation, 
with a countenance which, although 
collected, was several shades whiter 
from suppiessed anger, “ that this is 
a free country ; that I am a citizen 
of it, although a poor man and your 
tenant, and that I have as much 
right to entertain and express my 
opinions as you have yours.” 

“ Opinions, pooh !” responded 
Kortright, none the less enraged, 
but a little awed by the look and 
manner of his tenant. “ Opinions 
won’t make your corn grow, nor pay 
your rent when pay-day comes. In- 
stead of bothering yourself so much 
about the country, you had better 
look after the signs of degeneracy in 
your own fields. There, I admit, 
the father was superior to the son; 
and, as for the next 'generation, I 
suppose it will still be worse. I 
learn that that big son of yours, 
who ought to be at home helping 
you take care of the farm, is off to 
New York, leading the life of an 


idler ; but I dare say, it’s in the 
blood to ” 

“Stop, Colonel Kortright,” inter- 
rupted Maintland with a voice and 
look that checked the words on his 
landlord’s lips “ Not another breath 
of that kind, or there’ll be troublo 
between us. You may insult me, if 
you choose, but, if you speak an- 
other word against my family, and 
especially against my boy, Clinton, 
who is an industrious, faithful lad, 
trying to make his own way in the 
world, I’ll not be answerable for the 
consequences.” 

Neither of the men spoke another 
word. Face to face they continued 
to stand, showing the intensity of 
their feelings in their eyes, but with- 
out movement on either side, al- 
though Maintland’s right hand was 
closely shut, as if awaiting the induce- 
ment to the blow. 

Kortright was a man of spirit. 
His courage had been proved on 
more than one occasion, and his 
pride was excessive. To be thus 
bearded and threatened by his un- 
derling was almost more than he 
could endure. Yet he did endure 
it. He tried to look his adversary 
down, but there was that in his 
tenant’s eye which was not to be 
looked down. This Kortright at 
last saw ; and, after a minute of 
most fearful suspense, letting his 
own eyes fall, he turned on his heel 
and walked out of the house. 

“ Colonel Kortright, Colonel Kort- 
right,” piteously shouted Perry 
Doubleman, who, during the alter- 
cation had fled behind his counter ; 
but who, now seeing his best cus- 
tomer driven from the house, fol- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


55 


lowed him to the door, “is there 
anything I can do for you? — any- 
thing I can do for you ?” 

Colonel Kortright paid no more 
attention to his words than if they 
had been the barking of a dog. Un- 
tying his horse which stood at the 
store entrance, he silently mounted 
and rode away. 

“ Your hand 1” enthusiastically ex- 
claimed Phips, as he rushed up to 
Maintland and grasped the member 
mentioned — waiting, however, until 
Colonel Kortright had got beyond 
sight and hearing. 

“ Splendidly, magnificently done !” 
he rattled on, as he shook away most 
vigorously — “ just the thing I should 
have done myself, under the circum- 
stances.” 

“ Hurrah !” shouted the half dozen 
other Conservatives present, crowd- 
ing about Maintland, and each in 
turn grasping his hand. 

“ I couldn’t have done it for any- 
thing,” groaned Perry Doubleman, 
leaning disconsolately against his 
counter ; and no one knowing the 
man, would for a moment have 
questioned the truth of his words. 

“ It’s grit,” remarked the practical- 
minded Grupp, coming forward the 
last in order to take Maintland’s 
hand. “But, neighbor, I hope you’ve 
got a sure thing for your rent agin 
the next time ; for if you hain’t, 
after what’s happened here to-day, I 
wouldn’t give much for your chance 
with the Colonel.” 

“Indeed, sir,” rejoined Maintland, 
“ it is doubtful whether I can have 
the full amount by regular pay-day. 
I have not been in luck with my 
crops this season. But that’s not the 


thing. Principle is principle ; and 
I’d have done precisely the same if 
my landlord had the power to turn 
me off this very day. He owns the 
land I live on, but thank God ! my 
conscience is my own.” 

“ Hurrah !” roared the crowd once 
more. 

“ Never fear for the money,” 
shouted Phips, again getting Maint- 
land by the hand. “ You shan’t 
suffer for the money. After what’s 
happened here to-day, the party will 
take care of you. I tell you, sir, the 
party will take care of you.” 

“ Yes, yes, the party will take care 
of you,” as with one voice chimed 
all the others. 


CHAPTER YIH. 

ONE OF THE FAMILY. 

“ Father, I must have some 
money.” 

The speaker was as fine a looking 
young fellow as could be seen in a 
thousand — neat in attire, graceful in 
person, with brilliant eyes, glossy 
black hair, smoothly cut features, 
hands small and delicate, feet to 
match, and a general expression of 
countenance which was decidedly 
winning, notwithstanding an air of 
assurance which betrayed the care- 
less, if not dissolute, liver. The 
party addressed with such confident 
familiarity was Barton Seacrist, Tam- 
many Sachem, and candidate for the 
Mayoralty of New York city. Any 
one seeing the two men together 
could have told at a glance that they 
were father and son. 

“ Why, Gordon, it was but a few 


60 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


clays ago I gave you a liberal sup- 

piy-” 

“Yery true, father; but when 
money is gone, what is the use of 
talking about it?” 

“ But how could you have spent it 
so soon ? It was a thousand dol- 
lars.” 

“ Money goes very fast at Cum- 
mager’s, sometimes.” 

“At Cummager’s! How often, 
my son, have I warned you on that 
point ? Abel Cummager is a danger- 
ous man — a very dangerous man.” 

“ And my father’s particular friend. 
It was only the other night that he 
was in this house, in this room, and 
never was there a more favored 
guest. Why should you pet the man 
whom I am to shun ?” 

“I have my reasons — political 
reasons. ” 

“ So may I have my reasons for 
cultivating Abel Cummager’s friend- 
ship. But that is neither here nor 
there. I want money.” 

“And why should I give you 
money ?” responded the old man 
with some acerbity. “ You are my 
son, it is true ; but that gives you 
no right to rob me. I have had to 
make my money — earn it ; and why 
should I surrender the fruits of my 
labor, whenever you demand the 
means of gratifying your extrava- 
gance or your vices ?” 

“I’ll tell you why, father. I’m 
glad you’re inclined to reason the 
matter.” And the young man shift- 
ed his position so as to look the old 
one full in the eye. “ I’ll tell you 
why. Perhaps you think I don’t 
know how you got your money. If 
you do, I can inform you how you 


made a hundred thousand dollars in 
the opening of one street, where you 
were appointed to appraise damages ; 
how you made two hundred thou- 
sand by buying for the city which 
you officially represented, property 
which you owned in another’s name ; 
how you made three hundred, thou- 
sand by selling the city’s bonds for 
that much less than the}' were worth 
to your own agent ; and how you 
made over a million, by being secret- 
ly in partnership with men having 
work for the city to do, and whose 
pay you regulated. Oh, I can tell 
you the whole story from first to 
last ; and wliat’s more, I can tell it 
to others as well. As a citizen and 
a patriot, I really feel that it is my 
duty to make the facts known ; and 
I know of no way in which my con- 
science can be relieved, except by 
being made a particeps criminis in 
the use of some of the money.” 

“ Now, father, the money you have, 
doesn’t belong to you any more than 
it does to me. It belongs to the peo- 
ple of New York city. Such being 
the case, you have no moral right to 
keep it all to yourself. You are 
clearly obligated to divide with some- 
body, and with whom can you do so, 
I should like to know, more appro- 
priately than with myself ? I’m one 
of the family. I’m your son — a bad 
boy, I confess, but happily so well 
acquainted with your business that 
it’s your interest, as well as your 
duty, to do a father’s part by me. 
Now don’t you think I have made 
out a case ?” 

Barton Seacrist made no immedi- 
ate reply. He was a cool man — a 
very cool man; nevertheless, he arose 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


67 


and walked up and down the room 
in evident agitation. His son re- 
mained seated with an air of pro- 
voking nonchalance. 

“Come, father,” said the young 
gentleman, when several minutes of 
unbroken silence had gone by, “we 
are losing time. I thought you were 
a man of business.” 

“It’s not for the money I care,” 
responded Barton Seacrist, turning 
sharply upon his son. “ I’m an old 
man now, and I’ll soon have to give 
it up. But it is hard, hard, hard, to 
have to surrender the wealth I have 
bartered soul and conscience for, to 
become the means of ruining my 
own child. Oh Gordon, you and 
Kate are all I have. I do love you 
both. Then why should you tor- 
ment me in this unfeeling manner? 
Kate does not do so.” 

“ Sister Kate is a good girl — and 
I’m an undutiful son, I know,” re- 
plied the youth with some little sign 
of being touched with his father’s 
emotion. “ But the case is not quite 
as bad as you make it. I have be- 
gun to amend.” 

At the word “amend,” Barton 
Seacrist stopped in his walk, and set 
his eyes upon his son. 

“ Yes, father, amend. I have be- 
gun to turn over a new leaf. I’ve 
put away two mistresses within the 
last six months, and ” 

“ That’s a good boy.” 

‘‘And taken only one new one. 
That’s something in the way of re- 
formation at least. 

“ But that’s not all,” he went on ; 
“ I have resolved on another very 
great step. I have made up my 
mind to get married.” 


“Married, Gordon?” 

“Yes, father — to an honest, vir- 
tuous, beautiful girl, and, what is 
quite as much, if not a little more, to 
the purpose — the possessor in her 
own right of a very pretty property. 
I’ve had that point carefully investi- 
gated, so that there’s no mistake 
about it. When I’m her husband — 
although I don’t expect to exactly 
settle down at once into an old 
man and join the Quakers’ soci- 
ety — I’ll at least not have to call on 
you every fortnight for money. 
That’s something I know you’ll ap- 
preciate.” 

“ And who, pray, is this paragon 
you propose to make happy as the 
future Mrs. Gordon Seacrist ?” asked 
the old gentleman in a somewhat 
skeptical tone. 

“ Do you know Colonel Kortright, 
a leading man in the State Senate 
from somewhere up in the country ?” 

“Very well.” 

“And that his first wife was a 
great heiress ?” 

“ I have so understood.” 

“ And died, leaving one daughter 
her only heir ?” 

“ I believe I have heard as much.” 

“Well, she’s the party I’ve hon- 
ored with my selection.” 

“ I must congratulate you.” 

“Yes, father, I have decided on 
making Margaret Kortright my wife 
— if I can, and from my uniform 
success with the ladies, I don’t dis- 
trust my ability. 

“Nor is that the only important 
step I have determined upon,” con- 
tinued the youth, seeing that his 
father was listening attentively ; “ I 
have resolved to go into politics.” 


58 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ Politics, Gordon ?” 

“ Yes, father — politics. Seeing the 
kind of men who succeed politically 
in New York, I have come to the 
conclusion that I have the very 
qualities — inherited, I suppose — 
that are essential to success. Whe- 
ther I shall join Tammany, and 
in time become a Sachem, or give 
my support to the Mohicans, is a 
point I have not yet quite decided 
in my own mind. Most likely the 
latter, for then I shall have Abel 
Cummager to help me on. We are 
very thick, Abel and I. And when 
I’m in politics, and have jobs of my 
own, I’ll not be under the necessity 
of begging like a dog for what mo- 
ney I may need for any little indul- 
gence. So, you see, there’s hope for 
me yet, father.” 

“ How much money do you now 
want ?” asked Barton Seacrist, speak- 
ing as if he had not heard what his 
son had just been saying. 

“Two thousand dollars will an- 
swer for the present.” 

“I have but one thousand with 
me.” 

“ Could you not give me a check 
for the balance ?” 

“Not after what happened with 
the last one I gave you.” 

“Oh, in that case, I was merely 
correcting what I thought to be a 
mistake you had made — raised a 
figure three to a five.” 

“But I would have you under- 
stand that I don’t make mistakes of 
that kind.” 

“Well! well! give me the one 
thousand dollars. I’ll have to try to 
make it answer for present needs.” 

The money was handed over, and, 


with a profusion of thanks — for the 
son had inherited all his father’s ele- 
gance of manner — Gordon bowed 
himself out of the old gentleman’s 
presence, and was soon in one of 
Abel Cummager’s gilded dens of 
iniquity. 

Barton Seacrist sat long with 
bowed head and a peculiarly sad 
and troubled countenance, after his 
son had left him. The subject of 
his meditations, it was plain enough, 
was far from an agreeable one. 

It was thus he was sitting as Kate 
Seacrist entered the room. 

“ Why, father, you look as if 
something had annoyed you. I 
thought Gordon was with you.” 

With that she kissed her father 
lovingly. 

Barton Seacrist made no reply in 
words, but rising, he threw his arms 
about his daughter’s neck, and, rest- 
ing his head upon her shoulder, 
wept long, and bitterly. 


CHAPTER IX. 

OUB DUTY TO SOCIETY 

“I say it’s sfiandlus — that I do.” 

“ Who were they ? I never heard 
of them before.” 

“Nobody — absolutely nobody. 
They lived somewhere away down 
town. Mr. Seacrist, my husband 
says, has made a great deal of money 
out of some office he’s had — which 
may be very well so far — but as to 
society, they’ve never been nobody.” 

“ And now, since they’ve come on 
our street, I suppose they’ll look for 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


59 


all of us to call and do the agree- 
able.’’ 

“ Well, they may look. Not that 
I’ve got anything against the people ; 
but then our duty to society. I 
don’t believe in encouraging every- 
body.” 

“Nor I, Mrs. Goaring. They’ll 
get nothing but the cold shoulder 
from me.” 

“Have you noticed their window 
curtains, Mrs. Barnabas ? What rich 
patterns.” 

“And their carriage, Mrs. Goar- 
ing ! It eclipses all of us. Oh, 
we’re in the shade now !” 

And the speaker smiled a smile 
that was decidedly wintery. 

“Mr. Milks, the carpet man — I 
always buy of Meaker, but I heard 
that he was furnishing them, so I 
went and looked at some of his 
things — told me that he hadn’t 
carpeted anybody so richly for ever 
so long.” 

“And Bilkins, the furniture man 
— Mrs. Crowty told me he was sup- 
plying them — says that he has never 
done anything like their establish- 
ment before.” 

“ Oh, they’re determined to shine ! 
— that’s clear. I say it’s scandlus.” 

“Well, I suppose they can afford 
it. My husband says that Mr. Sea- 
crist is undoubtedly one of the rich- 
est men in New York — has made it 
all out of office, and by the most 
frightful dishonesty ; but that doesn’t 
make them a bit the better.” 

“No, indeed!” 

“As for old Mr. Seacrist himself, 
though, they say he’s quite a clever, 
gentlemanly man. But his fami- 

iy— ” 


“ As for the girl, they do say she’s 
not bad-looking, quite ” 

(The last speaker had a marriage- 
able son, but no daughter.) 

“ Oh, she’s a low thing. They say 
she actually writes for her father — 
is a sort of secretary — and talks poli- 
tics with men — quite unsexes her- 
self, in fact. But, as for the boy, 
they say he’s quite good-looking, 
quite ” 

(This speaker had a marriageable 
daughter, but no son.) 

“ A terrible • reprobate from all 
accounts — gambles fearfully — quite 
breaks his father’s heart.” 

“ Well, I must be going, Mrs. Bar- 
nabas.” 

“What’s your hurry, Mrs. Goar- 
ing ? I’m so glad you’ve called this 
morning.” 

“ You must come and see me soon, 
Mrs. Barnabas — very soon.” 

“Thank you! — I will, my dear 
Mrs. Goaring — thank you !” 

But still the visitor lingered. It 
was clear there was something more 
upon her mind. 

“As to these new neighbors of 
ours, then, we quite understand each 
other,” she finally remarked. “We 
are to give them the go-by altogether 
— cut them entirely.” 

“ Certainly — our duty to society.” 

“ I’m so glad I’ve seen you. Good 
morning, Mrs. Barnabas !” 

“ Come again soon, Mrs. Goaring. 
Good morning !” 

“ Matilda !” said Mrs. Barnabas to 
her daughter, who had, novel in 
hand, been sitting, or rather loung- 
ing, on a sofa in the back parlor, and 
had overheard all that had passed 
between her mother and her visitor 


60 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


in the front room, as soon as Mrs. 
Goaring was gone. 

“Matilda, my dear!” — at the se- 
cond mention of her name, the 
young lady languidly withdrew her 
eyes from the volume she was read- 
ing — “I must go over and call on 
our new neighbors, the Seacrists, 
right away.” 

“ Why, mother, what do you mean ? 
Mrs. Goaring says ” 

“That Mr. Seacrist is one of the 
richest men in New York — a million- 
naire.” 

“But our duty to society, ma,” 
responded the young lady, with a 
glimmer in one corner of her eye 
that bore some faint resemblance to 
a smile. 

“ Duty to ourselves first, I should 
rather say.” 

“ But what will Mrs. Goaring 
think, if she hears of it ?” 

“ I don’t care what she thinks, if I 
can only secure what I’m thinking 
of.” 

‘ ‘ What is that, ma ?” 

“ A husband for you, child.” 

“Why, who are you thinking of 
this time, ma ?” 

“ Our neighbor’s son — young Sea- 
crist.” 

“ Oh dear, the reprobate !” 

“ Nonsense, girl ! Young Seacrist 
may be wild ; but all young men 
in the upper circles are now wild. 
That, I’m sure, is no great matter. 
Your pa was wild when I married 
him, and he’s made a tolerably good 
husband, all things considered. You 
have to marry a man on uncertainty, 
anyhow. Young Seacrist’s the only 
son of a millionnaire — that much is 
certain ; and if we only do our duty, 


while the others are shrugging their 
shoulders at them, because they’re 
upstarts, we’ll secure the prize be- 
fore they know it.” 

“ But, ma ” 

“ No ‘ buts ’ about it, child. Do 
you know how old you are ?” 

“ Nineteen past. St) I heard you 
say yesterday ; and, as my mother, 
I’m sure you ought to know.” 

“ Nineteen past, pooh ! Yes, a 
good ways past. Twenty-five the 
eighth of last January. Nineteen 
won’t do much longer, I can tell 
you ; and just now you haven’t got 
the slightest prospect. Young Ro- 
lander is completely off ; Count Kap- 
per has turned out to be an impostor ; 
and Charley Dovetale’s father has 
broke all to pieces. A young lady 
in your situation can’t afford to have 
‘buts,’ when a millionnaire’s son is 
involved — no, indeed. You must 
begin at once to make love to his 
sister.” 

“ The low thing !” 

“ Low thing, or high thing, I tell 
you it’s necessary. It’s a chance 
which doesn’t offer every day, and 
we must improve it. I shall call on 
Miss Seacrist to-morrow morning ; 
apologize for your not accompany- 
ing me ; invite her over ; and you 
must make the most of her, and the 
brother, too, when he comes.” 

“Very well, ma! Have your own 
way ; but do let me alone now. I 
am reading Mrs. Manytale’s last 
novel, the Green Dragon ; and I’ve 
just got to where it is so interesting 
— where there’s going to be another 
murder, and perhaps two of them.” 

Here the young lady adjusted her- 
self upon the sofa in a position a lit- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


61 


tie nearer tlie horizontal, and was \ 
soon absorbed in the delightful hor- i 
rors of the Green Dragon, while 
her enterprising mother went off to 
busy herself with her own affairs, or 
those of her neighbors, as occasion 
required. 

That night there was an interest- 
ing discussion between Mr. and Mrs. 
Goaring, after that worthy couple 
had laid themselves down upon their 
connubial couch. The subject was 
the not very agreeable one of their 
only and decidedly unruly son, Rush- 
more, who had spent a great deal of 
money, and now, after having un- 
successfully endeavored to ruin the 
daughter of a poor, but worthy man 
— in which, if he had succeeded, he 
would not have materially damaged 
his social position — actually threat- 
ened to irretrievably compromise 
himself and his family by marrying 
the “ trollop.” 

“I have it, husband; exactly what 
we are to do with Rushy,” exclaimed 
the exultant wife and mother. 

“ Duced glad to hear it ; for I’ll 
be blasted if I know,” answered the 
husband. 

“We must marry him to a girl 
with money.” 

“ Yes, yes ; that’s all very easy to 
say ; but where is there such a one 
that we can get ?” 

“ I’ve got the one in my eye now.” 

“ Then I wish you would get her 
out. That’s a very unnecessary place 
to keep her.” 

“ Now, Dolly, be sober, won’t you ? 
I tell you I know the very person.” 

“Who is she?” 

“ Our new neighbor’s daughter.” 

“ What, the girl of that old politi- 


cian, Seacrist, who is said to have 
stolen more money belonging to New 
York than any other ten men in it ?” 

“ What difference does that make 
to us, so that he’s got the money, 
and Rushy can get the girl ?” 

“ That’s true, wife. But how are 
you going to bring it about ? Have 
they seen each other?” 

“Not yet; but I am going to call 
on Miss Seacrist to-morrow fore- 
noon, and it will be an easy matter 
to bring the girl round. You see, 
Mrs. Barnabas and all the other 
people on the street have made up 
their minds to cut the Seacrists, be- 
cause they’re upstarts, "and that will 
leave the coast clear for us. I shall 
make more of the poor girl on that 
account, and so will soon have her 
all right. She’s a low thing, I’ve no 
doubt, but then Rushy seems to 
have a liking for low people.” 

“ Very well, wife ; I’ll leave it all 
to you. You’re up to that sort of 
thing.” 

And with that remark, the mas- 
culine Goaring, turning his back to 
his admirable help-meet, soon showed 
by his regular and sonorous breath- 
ing the relief which the conversa- 
tion had brought to his mind. 

The next day Mrs. Barnabas and 
Mrs. Goaring met in the parlor of 
the Seacrists, and in the presence 
of Kate. There was a start of sur- 
prise — then a slight frown — then a 
smile of greeting — then a kiss, and 
then the most pressing inquiries con- 
cerning each other’s health and their 
respective families. Born sisters 
could not have been more loving. 

To Kate they overflowed with ex- 
pressions of welcome, and were un- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


02 


bounded in their admiration for eve- 
rything she possessed. Upon rising 
to leave they kissed her in succes- 
sion, and both declared their warm- 
est desire to make her feel at ease in 
her new home. 

4 ‘My dear Matilda,” said Mrs. 
Barnabas, “was so disappointed in 
not being able to come with me to- 
day ; but when she knows you, she 
will love you like a sister.” 

“I have no daughter,” said Mrs. 
Goaring with a sigh, “ only a son — 
my big boy Rush more — but we will 
all do our best to make you happy.” 

Then they went their several 
ways. 

Although Mrs. Barnabas declared 
to her daughter, and Mrs. Goaring 
to her husband, that the other was a 
‘ ‘ deceitful creature,” it is a satisfac- 
tion to be able to state that their 
neighborly relations were not in the 
least impaired by the incidents re- 
lated. 


CHAPTER X. 

FROM HIGH TO LOW. 

The writer now finds it necessary 
not only to descend from the ecsta- 
tic regions of -social and political 
high life, but to go back a little 
way and take up a thread of the 
narrative which has been dropped, 
in order that the skein of the story 
may be kept complete. 

It will be recollected that in his 
letter to Martin Swartwout, descrip- 
tive of his battle with starvation 
while waiting for business, Clinton 
Maintland spoke of dividing, when 


at the most desperate crisis of his 
fortunes, the pittance he had pro- 
cured by the pawning of his over- 
coat, with one who was more a sub- 
ject of pity than himself. He pro- 
mised his uncle to tell him the story, 
but, as there is no evidence that he 
ever did so, I shall now undertake 
to tell it for him. 

In his extremity, the clientless 
young attorney was driven to be- 
come his own boarding-master. He 
was accustomed, when the shades of 
evening had fallen, to slip out to a 
cheap bake-shop, purchase a supply 
of provisions for the next day, and, 
with his bundle under his arm, se- 
lecting the shady side of the street, 
glide back to his office, which was 
dining and sleeping apartment as 
well. 

One evening as he was waiting his 
turn to . be served at the counter, 
keeping as far as possible in the sha- 
dow, he was startled at seeing enter 
the shop a young woman, whose 
countenance exhibited a degree of 
beauty and refinement which proved 
her to be greatly superior to the 
mass of customers — chiefly of for- 
eign birth — frequenting the estab 
lishment. Her features, although pre- 
maturely thin and wasted, were re- 
markably delicate and regular, and 
the expression of her eye was mo- 
dest to timidity. An indescribable 
something in her manner, showed 
not only that she had enjoyed the 
privileges of a lady, but that the 
instincts of her higher nature were 
unextinguished. Otherwise, there 
was nothing to distinguish her from 
the throng in which she moved. 
Her apparel was thin and shabby 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


63 


and upon one arm she carried an 
infant only a few weeks old, as 
meanly covered as herself. 

Clinton, as the first comer, was 
entitled to the preference at the 
counter ; but he held back until the 
woman had gone forward, laid down 
a few pennies, received a coarse loaf 
of bread, and left the shop. Then, 
in being waited upon, he quietly 
asked the old woman serving him, 
who that was that had just gone out. 

“Some poor creature,” was the 
indifferent reply, accompanied with 
a shrug of the shoulders, which said 
very plainly that was all she cared 
about knowing concerning her. 

The face, however, haunted Clin- | 
ton. He thought of it on his way 
to his room. He thought of it a 
number of times the next day. He 
thought of it so much, in fact, that 
when night again came, he stationed 
himself in the same position as be- 
fore, to await its reappearance. He 
was not disappointed. Its possessor 
came in — her infant on her arm — 
made her way to the counter, laid 
down her pennies, received her loaf, 
and instantly hurried away. This 
occurred night after night, and all 
the time Clinton was becoming more 
and more interested in the stranger. 
To get another glimpse of that sweet, 
pale face, was almost as much of an 
inducement to him to visit the shop, 
as the prospect of his next day’s 
dinner. 

One night, however, she did not 
come at the usual hour. He waited 
until he had arrived at the conclu- 
sion that she was not going to come, 
had made his customary purchase, 
and was about to leave the shop, 


when the door opened and the un- 
known customer came in. Clinton 
stepped back for the purpose of 
watching her movements. She ap- 
proached the counter as usual, but, 
instead of laying down her money, 
leaned forward and said something 
to the proprietress of the establish- 
ment in a voice so low that Clinton 
could not hear. The answer, how- 
ever, was distinct enough. 

“It’s the rule of the shop never 
to give without the money.” 

And the old saleswoman drew her- 
self up stiffly, and looked sharply, 
even indignantly, at the shrinking 
creature before her. 

“ But I am promised my pay to- 
morrow,” hesitatingly expostulated 
the poor girl, her voice trembling 
and a tear glistening on her cheek. 
“It’s not so much on my own ac- 
count,” she went on, “ but I haven’t 
got strength for the baby.” 

But, as she spoke these words, no- 
ticing that one corner of the old 
handkerchief bound round the in- 
fant’s head had fallen over its face, 
she raised her hand to remove it, 
and, as she did so, a ring upon one 
of her fingers flashed brightly in the 
light. The old shop-mistress, whose 
features had really begun to relent, 
noticed it. 

“ A pretty story !” she immediately 
broke out, bristling up with a grand 
show of indignation. “Asking me 
for credit when ye wear such a thing 
as that. Go to the pawnbroker 
with ye. There’s one just round the 
corner. Want me to trust ye, do 
ye, when my lady can wear a ring 
like any princess? Why don’t ye 
sell it?” 


61 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ I can’t — lie gave it to me.” 

“ He — and wlio’s he ?” 

“ My — my husband.” 

“ Husband, hey !” shrilly piped the 
crone ; “ a pretty husband that lets 
ye beg the bread ye put into yer 
mouth. But stand back there, and 
let other customers have a chance. 
They haven’t got no husbands, or if 
they have, they’re not the kind that 
lets their wives go a-begging. A 
pretty story! A pretty story, in- 
deed ! has a husband — wears a ring 
— and wants me to trust her for the 
victuals she eats. I wonder what 
the shop would live on. Just as 
though I must provide other peo- 
ple’s wives with bread. Husband — 
pooh J” 

And the old termagant rattled on 
at a furious rate, growing more bois- 
terous the longer she considered the 
imposition that had been attempted 
upon her, and retailing the story of 
“ the trollop with a grand gold ring,” 
asking to be trusted for a loaf, of 
bread, to every customer who would 
stop to listen to her raving ; for the 
object of her denunciation had al- 
ready fled the shop, and Clinton had 
followed her. 

The poor, repulsed, insulted crea- 
ture at first hurried, almost ran, 
from the place ; but gradually her 
pace slackened, and finally she 
stopped altogether at the entrance 
to one of the most wretched tene- 
ment establishments in New York. 
There she stood as if hesitating 
whether to enter or not, when Clin- 
ton, who had been closely following 
her, stepped up, placed his own loaf 
of bread in her arms, and, without a 
word, passed on and out of sight. 


A night or two afterwards, as he 
was returning from the pawnbroker’s 
with the proceeds of his overcoat in 
his pocket, hurrying along one of 
the poorer streets, he was timidly 
addressed by a shrinking creature 
with a baby on her arm, who held 
out her hand for charity. Turning 
sharply upon the mendicant — he 
hardly knew why — just as a gleam 
from a street lamp passed over her 
features, he was astonished to dis- 
cover his companion of the bake- 
shop. He spoke, and although kind- 
ly, she shrank back in terror, and 
would have fled, had he not seized 
her hand. A few words sufficed to 
remove her apprehensions and se- 
cure her confidence, when he was 
put in possession of her story. 

Her history was by no means an 
exceptional one. An innocent coun- 
try girl, she had clandestinely mar- 
ried and followed to the city a young 
man who claimed to be of wealthy 
parentage. For reasons of a family 
nature which he plausibly urged, it- 
was agreed that, for a time, the mar- 
riage should be kept secret, and his 
relatives should not be inquired 
after. At first he was very affection- 
ate and very liberal, supplying her 
with every indulgence ; but just 
before her baby was born he aband- 
oned her altogether, leaving her 
utterly destitute of money. For a 
time she subsisted by disposing of 
her jewelry and her better clothing, 
until her wedding ring was all of 
any value that remained. She then 
sought work ; but her baby was 
troublesome, she herself was not 
strong, and employment was hard 
to find. She had not lost all confi- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY, 


65 


dence in her husband’s return — he 
had seemed so loving and so true — 
but she could not live on hope. At 
last necessity drove her to ask for 
charity on the street, and the first 
one to -whom she applied was Clin- 
ton. 

Her name, she told him, was 
Plain — Alice Plain — her husband’s 
Henry Plain. Clinton offered to 
divide equally with her what he had 
received from his coat ; but, upon 
learning that he was nearly as desti- 
tute as herself, she at first refused to 
accept anything of him, and finally 
was prevailed upon to take only one 
dollar. 

A few days afterwards came the 
turn in Clinton’s fortunes. Among 
the first things he did, after his 
pockets were supplied, was to hunt 
out Mrs. Plain, inform her of his 
success, hand her ten dollars — a 
portion of his first fee — and give her 
his business card, with the assurance 
that that would direct her where to 
apply should she stand in need of 
further assistance. Days and weeks 
went by and he saw nothing more of 
her ; and as, with the influx of busi- 
ness, he had something else to think 
about, she had almost passed out 
of his thoughts, when recalled to his 
mind in the manner related in the 
next chapter. 

CHAPTER XI. 

WHERE CHARITY LED. 

“ Would you believe it, father, 
Mag has found another angel in dis- 
tress, and to-day wasted as much 
money on her as would have got 


me that love of a mantle I have 
so wanted ? — another impostor I 
know.” 

“ Oh, no, Clara ! not an impostor 
this time. That face ” 

“ Nonsense, the face ! The deep- 
est always smile the sweetest. That 
Italian ” 

“ What is it, girls ?” 

The first speaker was Clara Bafford, 
a petite and sprightly blonde, per- 
haps seventeen years of age ; the 
second our old-time acquaintance, 
Margaret Kortright, but now a 
young lady of twenty ; and the 
third Archibald Bafford, father of 
the first and uncle to the second, 
having been a brother to Colonel 
Kortright’s first wife and Margaret’s 
deceased mother. He, Archibald 
Bafford, was a staid, bald-headed 
man of sixty, a merchant of New 
York city, wealthy, but whose style 
of living fully kept pace with his 
means, and altogether a most respect- 
able and aristocratic man. In his 
family Margaret Kortright, having 
shortly before returned from a Euro- 
pean tour following the completion 
of her seminary course, was at the 
time making her home. Here she 
was, of course, brought into the 
most intimate companionship with 
her cousin Clara, and all the points 
of difference in their characters were 
speedily developed. These proved 
to be many, notwithstanding the 
girls were the dearest of friends. 
Margaret, both physically and spirit- 
ually, was largely organized, with a 
heart full of the most generous ten- 
dencies, and her rather secluded life 
— for she had really been but a few 
months in society — had fostered, 


60 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


rather than checked, the kindly 
promptings of her nature, which 
now the enjoyment of ample means 
in her own right as her mother’s 
heiress enabled her liberally to gra- 
tify. Clara, on the other hand — a 
self-willed, and rather extravagant 
little beauty — having passed all her 
life amid the hardening influences of 
a great city, and having no resource 
except her father’s sometimes over- 
taxed purse, naturally looked upon 
all applicants for charity with sus- 
picion, and regarded the allowances 
made in their behalf as generally 
wasted. Here had been the source 
of many disputations between the 
cousins. 

“ What is it, girls ?” inquired Ar- 
chibald Bafford, looking up sagely 
from his evening paper. 

“ Why, father, what do you think ! 
only the other day a ragged little 
urchin, his clothes all greasy, and 
his hands and face, oh, so dirty! 
was standing out in front of the 
house begging. Along comes such a 
nice, gentlemanly-looking man, and, 
as the impertinent little fellow holds 
out his slimy hand, he gives him a 
rap over the knuckles with his cane 
and walks on. That set young im- 
pudence to bawling right lustily. 
‘ How heartless ! ’ exclaimed Mag, 
who had been looking on, and down 
she runs, bolts right out on the 
street, and the next minute had the 
little ragamuffin in the house. You 
ought to have heard how she went 
on over him. He had such sweet 
eyes. He was an Italian — she knew 
he was. Of course he was an Ital- 
ian ; though from his voice I knew 
he was Irish. He was an orphan — 


had neither father nor mother to take 
care of him. Of course he hadn’t. 
He must be hungry. Yes, very hun- 
gry — and she must run and get 
something for him to eat. And 
with that, laying down a bracelet 
she was holding in her hand when 
she discovered his beggarship, she 
starts for the kitchen. I had some- 
thing else to do than watch street- 
strollers, and so paid no attention to 
Mag’s protege, and — and what do 
you think! when she came back, 
carrying the nicest kind of a break- 
fast on a waiter in her own hands, 
the dear little Italian and bracelet 
were both gone.” 

Here the narrator was so over- 
come by merriment that it was some 
time before she could proceed. 

“ But, father, it didn’t do her a bit 
of good,” she resumed when able to 
speak. “To-day she showed that 
she was just as big a goose as ever. 
This is the way it was : Mag and I 
had gone down street, and Madam 
Juvenal told us of a woman that did 
such nice braiding, and so reasona- 
bly. That was just what I wanted 
to find, and so, taking the direction, 
we set out to hunt her. Oh, what a 
quarter it was ! The street was full, 
of horrid, red-faced men and wo- 
men, and the raggedest, rowdy chil- 
dren. I should have turned back 
at once, only I thought any one liv- 
ing there must work very cheap. At 
last we reached the place — and such 
a hole! We went up at least four 
pairs of stairs, creaky and slimy — 
it was awful — and there, clear at the 
top, we found the person. She wasn’t 
bad looking, though so thin and sor- 
rowful, and had a baby. That was 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY 


67 


enough for Mag. Without waiting 
for me to say anything about the 
braiding, she began to ask the wo- 
man all about herself. Of course 
she told a pitiful story. The baby 
had been sick — she couldn’t get work 
— her husband had deserted her; for 
of course she was married — and she 
didn’t know where he was, and want- 
ed to know so much ; and then she 
cried and kissed the baby. Oh, I 
tell you it was affecting ! and I 
couldn’t help crying a little, just a 
little, myself, though I didn’t believe 
a thing she said. But Mag, she be- 
lieved every word of it, and off we 
had to go forthwith, and engage a 
nice, clean room for her, and have 
her and her baby moved to it before 
we ever got home ; and Mag spent 
as much money on the creature as 
would have bought me that mantle 
I admire so much. Now, did you 
ever hear of anything like it ?” 

“But I’ll take my word that I 
wasn’t deceived this time,” she at 
whose expense the story had been 
told, succeeded in. getting in. “That 
face was enough for me ; and better 
still, the poor creature was so thank- 
ful, not for charity, but for work. 
Not one penny would she accept, 
and not one step would she go 
towards her new quarters, until it 
was understood that she was to 
work for every cent I expended on 
her account. Oh, Clara, how could 
you be so cruel as to try to beat her 
down on her prices, and she so gen- 
tle and so willing ?” 

“Because I wasn’t such a goose 


“ Stop, stop, girls — - that’s far 
enough !” mildly at this point inter- 


posed the paternal Bafford, as he 
saw the signs of a threatened quar- 
rel. 

“ Your cousin, Clara dear,” he con- 
tinued, with a slightly corrective 
tone to his daughter, “ has not lived 
in a city as much as you have, and 
naturally sympathizes with all in 
distress.” 

“ I don’t care,” responded the pet- 
ted little woman in a pout. “Mag is 
always stopping to help beggars, 
and poking into out-of-the-way, dis- 
agreeable places, when we are out 
together.” 

“Which proves that your cousin 
has a generous heart,” replied Mr. 
Bafford. 

“ Heart or no heart,” rejoined the 
self-willed girl, “I for one, don’t 
like beggars half as well as I do 
wealthy people, and I’d rather go to 
Stewart’s any day than to the Five 
Points.” 

The conversation had reached a 
point where it was manifestly un- 
pleasant to Miss Kortright, who 
sought to give it another direction. 

“ Uncle,” said she, “ the poor wo- 
man that Clara has been telling 
about, really interests me — so much 
so, that I wish I could help her 
find that runaway husband of hers, 
for I have faith in the story she 
tells. Do you know of any one who 
could be found to assist ” 

“ The police.” 

“ Oh yes ! but don’t lawyers some- 
times undertake such matters ?” 

“Certainly, if they are paid well 
enough.” 

“Do you know an attorney here 
in New York named Maintland — 
Clinton Maintland ?” 


G8 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ Maintland — Maintland — I think 
I have heard the name.” 

“I think I know him. We were 
raised together — that is, his father 
lived on my father’s land, and we 
knew each other. He told me that 
he intended to read law and then 
go to New York to make his for- 
tune.” 

“ And then return and marry the 
girl he made his confidant,” inter- 
posed Clara, not yet restored to good 
humor. 

A tell-tale blush was the only 
reply. 

“ I have reason to believe that the 
Clinton Maintland I refer to is in 
New York,” continued Margaret, 
addressing her uncle, “because I 
find the name in the Herald in con- 
nection with an important trial in 
one of the courts.” 

With that she handed her uncle 
the paper containing the article she 
referred to. 

“Oh, that’s what made you so 
careful of that old newspaper all 
day,” snarled Clara. “ I knew there 
was something about a beggar or 
somebody else in it.” 

“Maintland — that’s the name of 
the lawyer I was recommended to 
employ in some business I have. I 
thought of hunting him up to-mor- 
row,” remarked Mr. Bafibrd, as he 
finished reading a very compliment- 
ary notice of an argument Clinton 
had made in an important case, and 
handed Margaret back the paper. 

“ Could you do me the favor, 
uncle,” said she, “ when you see this 
Mr. Maintland, to ascertain whether 
he is from Willowford — because 
there may be more than one person 


of the name — and if so, let him 
know that I am in the city, and 
would be pleased to renew our 
acquaintance, as there are friends 
of his I am anxious to inquire 
about.” 

“ Certainly, my dear.” 

And so Clinton Maintland learned 
that his old-time companion, who, 
through long years of separation, 
had held a bright place in his 
thoughts, was in the same city with 
himself, and had not forgotten him 
— her rich father’s poor neighbor’s 
son. His heart gave a great throb 
at the intelligence. But it gave a 
greater one when, beneath the roof 
of the aristocratic Mr. Bafford, he 
met — not a half grown girl, with dis- 
ordered hair and careless dress — but 
a tall and queenly woman, elegant in 
attire, and courtly in manner, whose 
intelligence and beauty alike com- 
manded admiration. 

Nor was the surprise all on his 
side. Clinton had changed wonder- 
fully, and for the better. Instead of 
a country bumpkin, beardless and in 
a farmer’s linen frock, as he had 
lived, and pleasantly lived in her 
imagination, Margaret found herself 
confronted by a tall and imposing 
gentleman, easy in manner and grace- 
ful in carriage, his handsome face 
set off by a full, black moustache, 
and his ample person adorned by a 
fashionable, but not too elaborate, 
outfit. Clinton had, since his im- 
proving fortunes gave him the means, 
paid considerable attention to ex- 
ternals. If not actuated by personal 
vanity, he was at least resolved to 
get the full benefit of what nature 
had done for him. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


69 


The embarrassment of such a 
meeting soon gave way to pleasant 
reminiscences. Old times furnished 
abundant subjects for agreeable dis- 
course — not the least of which was 
that half accidental, half premedi- 
tated, meeting by the old stone wall 
in the little grove, their last for six 
long years, which is described in one 
of the opening chapters of this work, 
and the recollection of which brought 
increased color to both their faces. 
The time passed so rapidly and so 
pleasantly that it is no wonder Clara 
Bafford, who just then happened to 
be anxious for Margaret’s companion- 
ship in a shopping expedition, should 
have grown impatient at the delay. 
At last she could endure the sus- 
pense no longer ; and, perhaps hav- 
ing a slight curiosity to gratify, as 
well as a desire to terminate an inter- 
view which interfered with her plans, 
went singing and dancing into the 
parlor, as if totally unconscious that 
there was any one there. Of course 
she was greatly surprised and em- 
barrassed when she found herself in 
the presence of a stranger, and said 
something about thinking that some- 
body was gone ; but recovered her 
composure sufficiently to undergo 
the ordeal of an introduction. 

Clinton, hastily apologizing for the 
length of his stay, arose to take his 
leave. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Maintland,” said 
Margaret, “for detaining you a few 
moments longer. In the pleasure 
your accounts of our mutual friends 
have given me, I had quite forgotten 
a matter of business on which I 
wished to confer with you — some- 
thing professional.” 


“Or confessional,” added Clara, 
now quite restored to her usual 
serenity. 

“ At your service/* replied Clinton, 
bowing and again seating himself. 

Then followed Margaret’s account 
of her meeting with Alice Plain, and 
a statement of how much she had 
been interested in her — a story in 
which Clinton took no extraordinary 
interest, until it suddenly occurred 
to him that she might be describing 
his old acquaintance of the bake- 
shop, of whom he had heard and 
thought nothing for a considerable 
time. 

“ High forehead, light brown hair, 
eyes of a ” 

Clinton stopped, and, as he did so, 
he blushed to the v^ry roots of his 
hair. He had almost betrayed him- 
self, and he had no desire to explain 
the circumstances of his becoming 
acquainted with Alice Plain. Mar- 
garet saw his embarrassment, and 
was the more surprised as she had 
said nothing descriptive of the per- 
son of her in whose behalf she was 
speaking ; but was too well bred to 
seem to notice, and too kindly dis- 
posed to draw an unfavorable infer- 
ence from what she did not under- 
stand. So Clinton took the name 
and address of his new client, and, 
promising to give the matter his 
attention, left ; but not until he had 
been warmly pressed to repeat his 
call at an early day. 

“ So that is your country lover ?” 
said Clara, on the day following 
Clinton’s call. 

“Very good looking, too, is he 
not ?” replied Margaret with uncon- 
cealed satisfaction. 


70 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“Oh, yes, he’ll do — but I really 
don’t think him equal to some of 
your city-raised followers — Mr. Sea- 
crist, for instance. Mr. Seacrist is 
so graceful and so nice-looking.” 

“ Mr. Seacrist is very pleasant,” 
replied Margaret carelessly. 

“ I think he’s splendid,” rejoined 
Clara. “I only wish he was half 
as devoted to me as he is to you.” 

“ You may have him for anything 
I care.” 

“ Thank you ! I don’t take lovers 
at second hand. But now don’t you 
think Gordon Seacrist is nice ?” 

“ I am afraid he is fast.” 

“ Oh, that’s what they say of all 
the nice young men now. I don’t 
care for that. I rather like it. If 
ever I marry a man, I want him to 
be some one who not only has the 
means, but knows how to enjoy it ; 
and if he does drink a little, and 
play a little, and — and flirt a little, 
on occasions, I’ll try to endure it.” 

“ In which case you shall have my 
pity.” 

“ Pity or no pity, it’s what we’re 
doomed to. From what they say 
of the young men whom it would be 
at all the thing for people in our 
station to marry, I calculate one’s 
about as good as another.” 

“ For shame, Clara, how you talk ! 
What you say may be true of some 
of the young men of the period, but 
not of all. The man whom we saw 
yesterday is one in whose honor I 
could put every dependence.” 

“Well! well! you may be right 
— I hope you are — but it seems 
strange that he should be able to 
describe that afflicted angel of yours 
so accurately — now doesn’t it ?” 


Margaret was saved the necessity 
of replying to this rather awkward 
suggestion by the sudden appear- 
ance of a servant — a Hibernian — 
who began glibly to relate how the 
sewing woman that had just left a 
bundle, had returned in “a great 
flustration ” about a bit of paper 
containing the whereabouts of one 
who was “ a sort of lover of hers, 
and had had the keeping of her,” 
and which she had by mistake left in 
the bundle. 

Alice Plain had but a short time 
before left a package containing some 
work she had done for Margaret, 
and which, although sent up to its 
owner, had as yet remained un- 
opened. It was to that she had re- 
ference when speaking of the ad- 
dress of a gentleman who had as- 
sisted her in her distress, and which 
she did not wish to lose. The Hi- 
bernian’s imagination had supplied 
the balance. 

“ Oh, now we’ll see who the villain 
is !” exclaimed Clara, springing up 
and seizing the neatly-bound pack- 
age, which she began hastily to 
open. It was in vain that Margaret 
called upon her to desist, as they 
had no right to the poor woman’s 
secret. Paying no attention to her 
remonstrance, the self-willed girl 
snapped the string which she found 
herself unable immediately to loosen, 
unrolled the daintily-folded stuff, and 
out fluttered a little piece of paste- 
board, looking very much like a 
business card. It had hardly reached 
the floor before Clara had seized it, 
and, holding it out before her, burst 
into a loud and hoydenish laugh. 

“ Oh, the man of honor !” she ex- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


71 


claimed when able to speak in her 
merriment. “And she such an an- 
gel, too. Oh, Mag, Mag, what a 
goose you are !” 

With that she handed Margaret 
the piece of paper which was so 
productive of amazement, and which 
was simply Clinton Maintland’s busi- 
ness card that Mrs. Plain had acci- 
dentally inclosed with the work she 
had been doing for Miss Kortright, 
not missing it until the package had 
been delivered. 

Margaret gave it one glance, let 
the paper drop from her fingers 
upon the floor, and turned away 
from her jubilant companion, the 
tears filling her eyes. 

“ Why Mag, what’s the matter ?” 
exclaimed Clara, as she noticed Mar- 
garet’s continued silence. “ Crying ? 
Well, I’ll declare, I didn’t think you 
were going to take it that hard. 
Now I wouldn’t do anything of the 
kind. What’s the difference ? Sup- 
pose one lover does turn out to be 
bad ; I’m sure you’ve got enough 
left. And he’s nothing but an old 
boy-acquaintance after all. Gordon 
Seacrist is a great deal nicer. I’d 
let the worthless fellow go — and his 
angel, too. Oh, it’s such — such a 
joke !” 

And here the impulsive creature 
went off into another fit of uncon- 
trollable laughter. 

Clara was a poor comforter, and 
Margaret, who really did feel very 
much hurt, managed as speedily as 
possible to get off to herself. She 
then thought the whole matter over. 
The case did look very dark. Clin- 
ton’s previous knowledge of the wo- 
man, his manifest embarrassment 


when she was referred to, and his 
reticence at the same time concern- 
ing her, together with the circum- 
stance of the card, were all very un- 
pleasant points. But Margaret was 
naturally unsuspicious — Clinton ap- 
peared so meritorious and Alice 
Plain so truthful, there might yet be 
some mistake about it. She was re- 
solved not to decide adversely with- 
out further investigation, and to this 
end she would see the only person to 
whom she could look for a full ex- 
planation — Alice Plain. Accordingly 
on the very next day, watching her 
opportunity when she could steal 
away without Clara’s knowledge, she 
visited the quarters which she had 
so benevolently provided for the un- 
fortunate woman. There a new sur- 
prise met her. Alice was gone. Both 
she and her infant had disappeared 
the evening before. "Where they 
had gone no one could tell. They 
had simply vanished away. The case 
— even Margaret was forced to ad- 
mit it to herself — was made out. 
The disappearance of Alice Plain, 
following immediately upon the infor- 
mation Clinton had received of her 
wrongs being about to be made the 
subject of an investigation, supplied 
the one conclusive fact against him. 
Margaret was driven to the irresisti- 
ble decision that the story of the 
missing husband was an ingenious 
fiction, and that the real culprit was 
no other than Clinton Maintland. 

When Clinton again called at 
the residence of the Baffords, which 
he did at as early a day as seemed 
becoming, he was informed that Miss 
Kortright was not at home to him. 

He was surprised — enraged ; but 


72 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


there might be some mistake about 
it, and he resolved to tiy again. 
Once more he called, and that time, 
to prevent any misunderstanding, 
sent in his card. It was returned 
with the statement that Miss Kort- 
right did not choose to see him then 
— nor thereafter. 

He thought he understood it all. 
The rich landlord’s daughter, having 
amused herself for the time at his 
expense, had concluded to have noth- 
ing more to do with the poor rent- 
er’s son. 


CHAPTER XII. 

TOM SPONGE. 

The morning following his inter- 
view with Margaret Kortright, de- 
scribed in the last preceding chapter 
save one, Clinton Maintland sat in 
his office in that state of mind usu- 
ally denominated “brown study.” 
The expression of his countenance 
indicated a very agreeable train of 
thought, except when his eye rested 
on a Little slip of paper in his hand, 
containing the direction he had re- 
ceived from Margaret for finding 
Alice Plain. Then something of a 
puzzled look would overspread his 
visage. He had accepted — unreser- 
vedly accepted, the commission that 
paper imposed ; and yet it was ob- 
vious enough that the task was not 
altogether to his liking. Not that 
Clinton thought of shirking the duty 
involved — he would just then have 
rather given his right hand — but he 
would have greatly preferred that 
somebody else was charged with its 


performance. It was not in the 
strict line of his profession, the re- 
quirements of which now quite fully 
employed his time ; and, while he 
profoundly sympathized with the un- 
fortunate and injured woman he had 
promised to assist, he felt that the 
business of seeking a runaway hus- 
band for her was entirely too Quixo- 
tic for his taste. 

Under such circumstances, it was 
not strange that a person should en- 
ter the room without attracting the 
attorney’s attention. Particularly so, 
since the step of the new-comer was 
cat-like, and all his movements beto- 
kened the extremest caution. Upon 
entering, he stood for some time 
carefully looking about him and giv- 
ing the master of the apartment a 
rapid, but thorough, scrutinization. 
The result of the examination seem- 
ing to be favorable, the stranger 
quietly possessed himself of a chair, 
and took a seat. Then, having run 
his hand up and down the bosom of 
his coat, which was closely buttoned, 
as if to determine whether every- 
thing was safe in that quarter, he 
gave the signal of his presence by 
sharply clearing his throat : 

“Ugh! ugh!” 

Clinton started with surprise, 
which was not at all diminished by a 
hasty inspection of the stranger. He 
was accustomed to singular people, 
his practice, which was largely crimi- 
nal, bringing him in contact with 
many eccentric characters ; but here 
was one belonging to a class that 
was entirely new. 

The visitor was neither old nor 
young, tall, spare, and had the un- 
mistakable appearance of genteel 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


73 


seediness. He fixed his eyes upon 
Clinton with a look that was inquisi- 
tive almost to impertinence. 

“ Your servant !” he at last began. 

“ Yours,” replied Clinton in a tone 
that was anything but encourag- 
ing. 

“Ugh! ugh!” resumed the stran- 
ger, seemingly not in the least dis- 
concerted. “I see, ugh! you need 
assistance.” 

“ What do you mean ?” demanded 
Clinton, both a little startled and 
nettled by such a singular observa- 
tion. 

“Need assistance,” went on the 
visitor unflinchingly. “ Young man 
from the country, I see — brilliant, 
but raw — in constant danger — liable 
at every turn in a great city — terri- 
ble place, New York — terrible place, 
ugh !” 

“And who are you?” inquired 
Clinton, none the less annoyed be- 
cause he concluded that his visitor 
must be deranged. 

“Sponge, ugh! — Thomas Sponge 
— name in full — Tom Sponge usu- 
ally called — well known — been in 
half the offices in town — had pro- 
spects once — young — hopeful — flat- 
tered — went to the dogs — down 
now, ugh ! A gentleman, but a 
wreck.” 

“ What do you want?” 

“Want to assist you, sir — know 
the dangers — been through them all 
— terrible place, New York — terrible 
place, ugh !” 

“ And what can you do ?” 

“Anything, sir — everything — 
know the town — know the dangers — 
been through them all — do anything 
you want, sir — if not satisfactory, 


kick me out — don’t mind it — not in 
the least, sir — been kicked out of 
half the offices in town — that’s the 
beauty of it — a gentleman, but a 
wreck.” 

Clinton was now fully enlightened. 
He had heard of Tom Sponge — 
heard of him as an unfortunate and 
needy gentleman, who claimed a 
connection with the legal profession, 
and went about among the law 
offices of the city picking up little 
jobs of one sort or other, and get- 
ting, as he intimated, as many kicks 
as pennies for his pay. In fact, he 
recognized in the half-genteel, half- 
shabby, half cringing, and half con- 
sequential, but most persistent, indi- 
vidual before him, a member of a 
very numerous family, with repre- 
sentatives in almost every business, 
which, combining wit with folly, 
energy with sloth, strength with 
weakness, presumption with coward- 
ice, has led a career of the most 
reckless variety, invariably ending in 
failure. Every city is full of such 
specimens of wrecked humanity. 
How they live no one exactly knows ; 
but there they are. Owing to his 
obscurity Clinton had before escaped 
this universal bore ; but now, as a 
rising man, his turn for the visitation 
had come. He was on the point of 
courteously declining the tendered 
services of one who, according to his 
own confession, had failed in all his 
undertakings, at the same time offer- 
ing some present assistance, which, 
he judged from the' visitor’s appear- 
ance would not be refused, when his 
eye fell upon the little slip of paper 
in his hand. 

“Can you play the detective?” he 


74 


FIVE HUN DEED MAJOEITY. 


inquired, as a new idea entered his 
mind. 

“Anything, sir,” was the conclu- 
sive reply. 

“Take that paper, then. It con- 
tains the address of a woman whose 
husband has disappeared, and is to 
be found. It will be your business 
to see the wife, get what information 
you can from her, and go to work at 
once. If anything comes of it, let 
me know the result.” 

“ All right, sir ! all right ! And if 
I don’t satisfy you, just kick ” 

“Enough — go to work at once. 
The case is urgent,” interrupted 
Clinton, who had begun to weary of 
the interview. “ But stop — you can’t 
work on nothing, he added, as, tak- 
ing out his pocket-book, he handed a 
ten dollar bill to his new employee. 

Sponge unhesitatingly accepted 
the money, and, having tact enough 
to see that his company was no 
longer desired, took himself, although 
not without a profusion of thanks, 
out of Clinton’s presence. 

Thus began an association which, 
notwithstanding its unpromising in- 
troduction, led, as the reader will 
hereafter learn, to consequences that 
were of importance to both parties. 
Sponge had accurately described 
himself as a wreck ; but was not 
without some of the qualities apper- 
taining to the other character he 
claimed — that of a gentleman. One 
of these was gratitude for a favor 
kindly shown. Poor fellow ! having 
got upon the downward track, favors 
had become so rare that he had 
learned to appreciate their value. 
He had been so kicked and cuffed 
that his spirit was nearly broken. 


In seeking Clinton Mainland’s ac- 
quaintance, his only object had been 
to scrape a scanty livelihood by ab- 
ject service ; but the result was an 
unexpected revelation. To his sur- 
prise he found himself treated like a 
man. Even more to his surprise, he 
found in time that there was some- 
thing more than bare existence for 
him to live for, and the desire to do 
a man’s part began to grow from the 
debris of his shattered hopes. But 
of this in due time. 

Nor did Clinton have cause to 
regret the occasion which brought 
Tom Sponge to his aid. In many 
ways he fulfilled his promise to be 
useful. He had, as he claimed, seen 
and realized all phases of metropoli- 
tan life. Thrown upon its surface 
with prospects that were uncommon- 
ly brilliant, he had for a time floated 
most buoyantly — was courted, flat- 
tered, and spoiled, until, carried be- 
yond his depth, he had suddenly 
sunk to a point from which he was 
unable to rise. Once going down, 
he found everything changed. No 
longer petted, he was insulted and 
kicked. From that time he had led 
a precarious, vagabond life, until, 
seeing in Clinton Maintland a man 
of growing means and fame, he 
inferred that he would be in good 
humor with the world, and so well 
disposed towards its less lucky mem- 
bers, and had sought him according- 
ly. While his knowledge on all 
points was superficial, he had, while 
following the career of a foot-ball, 
gained a fund of information, and 
acquired a degree of cunning, that 
were likely to prove much more use- 
ful to another than to himself. Be- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


75 


sides, when, to his surprise, he once 
more found himself treated with 
confidence, he was ready to carry 
service to the very limit of self sacri- 
fice. Becoming an attache of Clin- 
ton Mainland’s office, he held him- 
self ready for every emergency that 
arose. Between him and his em- 
ployer there was never any positive 
understanding. All his necessities 
were liberally supplied, and, as his 
habits had always corresponded 
with his opportunities, the compen- 
sation he received fully equalled his 
service. 

Quitting the office of his new 
patron, Sponge lost no time in reach- 
ing one of the most fashionable 
restaurants the city contained. Sev- 
eral cheaper establishments were 
passed on the way ; but of these he 
took no notice, notwithstanding he 
had before often patronized them, 
and in more than one had then an 
unsettled account. Entering with 
a lordly step the spacious dining 
apartment; he seated himself at an 
empty table, and looked about him 
with an air of easy confidence. 

“Waiter!” he sang out with a 
voice of such authority that an obse- 
quious attendant was promptly on 
hand. In an equally imposing man- 
ner he gave his order — one embrac- 
ing the choicest delicacies of the 
season — and then threw himself into 
a posture of seemingly unstudied 
grace until such time as his demands 
should be complied with. The haste, 
however, with which he attacked the 
viands when they appeared, and the 
rapidity with which he disposed of 
them, did somewhat detract from 
the dignity of the proceeding ; but 


for these slight weaknesses due 
allowance should be made, when it 
is known that this was the first time 
for weeks he had enjoyed a satisfac- 
tory meal. Once, indeed, he came 
near destroying the entire effect of 
the performance; for growing heated 
from the exercise of eating, he 
thoughtlessly opened his coat, and 
threw himself back in his chair, thus 
exposing the almost entire absence 
of any clothing beneath. Fortun- 
ately he bethought himself in time, 
and, by hastily restoring the former 
status of his garments, avoided con- 
sequences which must have been dis- 
agreeable in the extreme. 

The meal ended, with the most 
charming nonchalance he laid down 
the bill he had received from Clin- 
ton, handed the attending servant 
half a dollar out of the change, and 
slipped what remained — less than 
half the original amount — into his 
pocket. After which, having first 
provided himself with a lighted cigar, 
he walked leisurely and majestically 
out of the establishment. 

His pace, when again upon the 
street, showed none of the eagerness 
he had displayed before his recent 
feed. Strolling along the avenue, he 
stopped before various attractive win- 
dows, and, with the eye of a con- 
noisseur, inspected their contents, 
until a noted gentlemen’s furnishing 
establishment having secured his at- 
tention, he entered. Here he pur- 
chased and paid for a cravat of ex- 
traordinarily brilliant colors, and a 
pair of gloves whose fit was per- 
fectly unexceptionable. He did pur- 
chase some other articles of perso- 
nal attire ; but, discovering that his 


76 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


money was all gone, lie had them 
marked and laid aside until he should 
return. 

Once more upon the street, he 
sauntered on in the same free and 
elegant way, until, becoming some- 
what heated with his walk, and find- 
ing himself at the door of a stylish 
drinking place, he entered and called 
for a refreshing beverage. The mix- 
ture was received and consumed, 
when, putting his hand into his 
pocket, his cheek suddenly lost its 
color — he had not a cent of money, 
a circumstance which had totally es- 
caped his recollection — but his em- 
barrassment was but momentary. 

“ Well ! well ! I’ll swear, if, in 
changing my pantaloons, I haven’t 
left my pocket-book behind. How 
provoking! You’ll have to leave it 
until I call again,” he remarked t<3 
the man behind the counter. 

“ Oh, certainly ! certainly !” po- 
litely replied the bar-tender, an unu- 
sually stout-built man ; but who was 
at the same time sharply exar^ining 
Sponge’s sendee- tarnished exterior ; 
“ it’s not of the slightest conse- 
quence — not of the slightest conse- 
quence. A word in your ear, if you 
please.” 

With that the man stepped from 
behind the counter, while Sponge, 
with an air of condescension, ad- 
vanced to meet him. But no sooner 
had the two come within reaching 
distance, than the first rudely grasped 
the latter by the collar. 

“Left your pocket-book, did ye?” 
bellowed the assailant, at the same 
time shaking his astonished captive 
so as to fairly make his teeth rattle. 
“ Try to come it over me, old fellow, 


in that way, will ye? Out of this, 
and never let me see your sneaking 
mug again. There !” 

At this point, having got Tom to 
the door, he gave him a shove, as- 
sisted with a lift from the tip of his 
boot, which landed him far out on 
the sidewalk. 

Sponge lost no time, .unnecessarily, 
in gathering himself up, and mak- 
ing off from the scene of his dis- 
comfiture. Otherwise, no injury 
seemed to have been done him in 
either mind or body. Once out of 
sight of the place, his air of com- 
fortable nonchalance quickly re- 
turned, and not so much as a frown 
remained upon his brow as he walked 
slowly on. Nevertheless, he made 
no further stops before reaching his 
own quarters. 

But, long before arriving at this 
destination, Tom had turned aside 
from the fashionable avenue he had 
been traversing. Worse and worse 
grew the town as he advanced, until, 
finally, in one of its very lowest 
quarters, he disappeared in a struc- 
ture which was even more unseemly, 
if possible, than its neighbors. 

Here at last we have tracked the 
wrecked gentleman to his lair, and a 
wretched place it is. Away up on 
the fourth or fifth story, immedi- 
ately below the roof, is a low and 
desolate apartment. There is but 
one window to the room, and that is 
filled with cracked and dusty panes 
of glass, or even more unsightly 
substitutes. The floor is uneven and 
carpetless, and not over clean at 
that. The walls where the original 
plastering remains, as it does in scat- 
tered patches, are nearly black. The 


FIVE HUNDKED MAJOKITY. 


77 


furniture and adornments are a sin- 
gular mixture of elegant rubbish 
and paltry necessities. There is an 
antique dressing-case, which must 
once have been an elegant affair ; se- 
veral swords and foils hanging 
against the walls, badly rusted and 
nicked ; half a dozen photographs, 
one half, of the master of the apart- 
ment in various elaborate costumes, 
the others of richly-attired females, 
with an unmistakable stagy look, 
all in frames badly cracked and tar- 
nished ; a venerable morning gown, 
which must in its day have been de- 
cidedly stunning, now sadly faded ; 
and sundry other useless and cure- 
less articles, evidently relics of a de- 
parted splendor, and all so deterio- 
rated as to be beneath a pawn-bro- 
ker’s notice. 

But when we come to the essen- 
tials, the display is indeed contempt- 
ible. There is not a sound chair in 
the room. In one corner is a wretched 
apology for a bed, consisting of a 
hard mattress stretched upon the 
floor, and covered with a ragged 
quilt. Near it, and on a chair from 
which the back has been broken, 
stand a handleless pitcher and a 
cracked basin, while a dirty towel 
swings from a nail in the wall. The 
only perfect piece of furniture in the 
room, and one which the proprietor 
evidently regards as indispensable to 
its comfort, is a cheap mirror, sus- 
pended near the window to catch its 
best light, in an imitation mahogany 
frame. 

Altogether, it is a most miserable 
hole for a human being to occupy, 
and especially for one who not only 
calls, but considers, himself a gentle- 


man. But the present occupant, at 
the time we are supposed to be 
watching his proceedings, is clearly 
not disposed to waste his time in 
moralizing over his fate. His atten- 
tion is otherwise employed. 

No sooner did Tom Sponge enter 
his den, than he began to open out 
and examine his recent purchases. 
A child with a basket of fresh toys 
could scarcely have exhibited more 
delight than this full-sized man, as 
he held up first his cravat, and then 
his gloves, between himself and the 
dusky window, testing each in turn 
with eye and fingers. The examina- 
tion having been prosecuted to his 
satisfaction, he prepared to array 
himself in his finery. The first move- 
ment was to remove his coat, result- 
ing in an exposure which I should 
blush fully to describe, as the only 
garment that remained was so frag- 
mentary in its character as scarcely 
to deserve the name it commonly 
bears. But Tom was neither inti- 
midated nor disturbed by the dis- 
play. Taking an unused paper collar 
from his dressing-case, and adjust- 
ing it with his new cravat of bril- 
liant hues about his neck, he stood 
in pleased contemplation, and in va- 
rious positions, before his mirror, 
closely studying the effect, totally 
indifferent to, if not unconscious of, 
the melancholy contrast presented 
by the clinging tatters and bare 
patches below. Then, his coat hav- 
ing been replaced and closely but- 
toned, but with the ends of his new 
cravat flaunting over the collars ; his 
shoes being rubbed off with an old 
rag ; his hat polished by his hand, 
and an indentation or two carefully 


78 


FIYE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


pressed out, the climax of the opera- 
tion was reached in the putting on 
of the gloves, which proved to be a 
perfect fit. The man, thus arrayed, 
stood for a considerable time re- 
garding himself in the uncertain, 
but therefore none the less flattering 
reflection of the glass ; and really, 
all things considered, he did present 
a most genteel appearance. 

But attractive as the picture was, 
even Tom Sponge in time desisted 
from the contemplation. Other eyes 
were to be dazzled as well as his 
own. He was now prepared for 
business — the business of calling 
upon a lady on the delicate mission 
with which he was charged. Ac- 
cordingly, taking out the little slip 
of paper he had received from Clin- 
ton Maintland, he studied it long- 
enough to get the contents fully im- 
pressed upon his mind, and then 
went forth with a realizing sense of 
the importance of himself and the 
occasion* 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE STOLEN TREASURE. 

Led by the direction contained in 
the little slip of paper he had re- 
ceived from Clinton, Tom Sponge 
was not long in presenting himself 
at the door of a very plain, but 
decent, boarding-house, where he 
inquired of a six-year-old girl that 
opened the door in answer to his ring, 
for Mrs. Alice Plain. 

“This way,” exclaimed the little 
creature, who immediately began to 
climb a pair of stairs, using hands 


as well as feet in the operation, and 
stopping on every other step to re- 
peat the words to her follower, until 
two or three flights had been sur- 
mounted. Then, running to a door, 
she began to thump it with all her 
might, at the same time shouting 
at the top of her lungs, “ Here Miss 
Plain ’s a man a-come fur yer.” 

The door, at such a startling sum- 
mons, was partially and cautiously 
opened, and out peeped a woman’s 
face at which Tom was not a little 
surprised. He had arrayed himself 
in his best, partly from the force of 
habit, and partly from an instinct of 
gallantry when about to call on a 
lady, and not that he had expec.ed 
to meet anything very attractive in 
an abandoned wife. 

But here he found himself face to 
face with one whom his observation 
in society informed him at a glance 
was a person of superior beauty and 
refinement. Hence, being completely 
taken aback, he experienced consid- 
erable difficulty in explaining his 
presence, as the lady herself, being 
equally surprised, said nothing. 

“Ugh! Ugh!” he began, with 
more than ordinary obstruction in 
his throat, “ your servant !” 

The lady slightly bowed, but made 
no other response. 

“ Am I, ugh ! ugh ! addressing 
Mrs. Alice Plain ?” inquired Tom. 

“That is my name, sir,” replied 
Alice, still keeping herself inside the 
nearly closed door. 

“From Clinton Maintland, ma’am,” 
said Tom, bowing profoundly and 
handing Alice one of Clinton’s busi- 
ness cards which he had managed to 
pick up. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


79 


That name was the “ open sesame ” 
both to the apartment and its occu- 
pant’s confidence. Throwing open 
the door, with a gracious smile she 
bade Tom enter. 

Once in the room, the visitor had 
time to collect his thoughts and pro- 
ceed to an explanation of his busi- 
ness, which he did as soon as he had 
succeeded in getting his throat in 
working order. 

“I am greatly indebted to your 

master ” said Alice, by way of 

beginning a reply to Tom’s explana- 
tion of his visit, having concluded 
from her visitor’s peculiarity of 
outfit that he was a servant in livery. 

“Master!” exclaimed Tom, fairly 
bounding from his seat, and fixing 
his eye upon Alice with great severity. 
“ Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! not master, but 
employer, ma’am. Employer, I tell 
you.” Then he added with great 
impressiveness, “A wreck, but a gen- 
tleman, ugh !” 

The situation was decidedly em- 
barrassing. How Mrs. Plain was to 
apologize for her mistake, was yet 
uncertain, when her baby, which had 
been peacefully sleeping in its cradle, 
as luck would have it, startled by 
Tom’s emphatic words, set up a 
piercing cry. The interruption gave 
the mother, in her efforts to appease 
the wailing infant, a chance to drop 
the subject. 

As soon as the little one had been 
sufficiently quieted, Alice proceeded 
to give Tom, who drew out paper 
and pencil and pretended industri- 
ously to be taking notes, although 
he did not make a mark, an account 
of her meeting with Henry Plain, as 
her husband called himself, their 


marriage, and their married life down 
to the time of his disappearance. 

The narrative finished, the time 
to close the interview had come. 
But Tom, who had become more and 
more interested in the woman as the 
story of her wrongs progressed, was 
quite willing to prolong his stay. 
The baby furnished an excuse. He 
asked its age, name, and weight, 
complimented it on its beauty, took 
it on his knee, and made most divert- 
ing faces for its amusement, all the 
time rattling away most glibly to 
both mother and child. 

“ Have no family — (Oh, you little 
darling, you!) — of my own, ma’am 
— (chick-a-chuck) — been too busy — 
(chirp, chirp, chirp) — all my life — 
(wife, rife, strife) — ever to marry — 
(ho-the-diddle-do) — down now, 
ma’am — (chirp, chirp, chirp) — a 
wreck — (up in a balloon, boys) — but 
a gentleman, ma’am — (high diddle, 
the cat’s in the fiddle) — yes ma’am, 
a gentleman — (Oh, what pretty 
eyes!) — boy or girl? — (whirl, flurl, 
surl) — boy, you say — (soney, money, 
funny) — well, well, well — (round and 
round we go) — never should have 
thought it — (a kiss) — never, never, 
never — (chirp, chirp, chirp.)” 

The three got on so well together 
that, by the time Tom reluctantly 
rose to take his leave, Mrs. Plain 
gave him a most grateful smile, as 
well as many thanks, for his interest 
in one so humble as herself — and the 
baby was fast asleep. 

But as he stood ready to depart, 
casting his eye about the apartment, 
and seeing how plain everything was, 
Tom involuntarily put his hand into 
his pocket. 


80 


FIVE HUNDEED MAJOEITY. 


“ Will you permit me, ma’am, to 
offer ” 

Here he stopped suddenly and 
awkwardly, at that point discovering 
that he had not a cent of money to 
his name. 

“Thank you very much for your 
liberality, sir,” replied Mrs. Plain, 

“ but I want nothing. A lady gives 
me employment.” 

Tom stopped to hear no more ; 
but, although fearfully vexed lest she 
had discovered his embarrassment 
and suspected its cause, he went 
away none the less enchanted with 
the beauty and the manners of the 
woman for whom he was to “make 
search for a husband. A husband — 
Tom’s heart told him he would much 
rather find her a substitute than the 
original. 

No sooner was he gone than Alice 
laid the sleeping infant in his cradle, 
softly and sweetly singing a lullaby 
song ; then, when his slumber 
seemed to be fully confirmed, glanced 
gratefully for a few moments at the 
little piece of pasteboard containing 
the name and address of Clinton 
Maintland, which Tom had given 
her ; after which, hastily gathering 
together some delicate needle-work 
upon which she had been laboring, 
she folded it into a nice, compact 
bundle, wrapped a piece of paper 
about it, and tied it securely with a 
bit of twine, overlooking in her 
haste the fact that she had enclosed 
Clinton Mainland’s card, and never 
dreaming of the misapprehension to 
which that simple act would lead. 
Then calling the little six-years-old, 
and charging her carefully to watch 
the baby while she was gone, as she 


would be out but a little while, Alice, 
having first pressed a kiss which was 
almost like a breath of air upon the 
sleeping infant’s cheek, hurried away 
to deliver the parcel which Margaret 
Kortright had a right to expect. 

Little six-years-old stood to her 
post faithfully, until there was an- 
other ring at the street door bell ; 
and then, as baby was sleeping 
soundly, away she hurried to admit 
the new-comer. 

This time the visitor was a female, 
middle-aged, tall and stout, and 
with a bleary look about the eyes 
which would have carried suspicion 
at once to the majority of minds. 
She asked for Mrs. Plain. Mrs. 
Plain was out. Did she take the 
baby with her? “No marm, I’se 
left to watch him,” was the reply of 
the little six-years-old, proud of her 
responsibility. “Then I’ll jist step 
up into her room and wait till she 
gits back. I’m a friend of the 
lady’s,” was the stranger’s observa- 
tion ; and little six-years-old once 
more climbed the stairs on hands 
and feet, in the capacity of con- 
ductress. 

No sooner was the blear-eyed wo- 
man seated in Mrs. Plain’s apart- 
ment, than, turning to little six- 
years-old, she remarked, with what 
she tried to make a smile : “Now 
I’ll take care of baby till mother gits 
back, and you, me little darlin, can 
run and play ; and here’s a penny to 
git you some candy, and a shillin to 
buy you a pretty picter book. There, 
run away ! — run away !” 

It required no second direction to 
send little six-years-old down the 
stairs and out of the door into the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


81 


street, where, with a stick of candy 
in her hand, she was soon lost in de- 
lightful bewilderment before a side- 
walk news-stand covered with illus- 
trated periodicals and cheap picture 
books. She had often stopped in 
the execution of the most pressing 
errands, to steal a glance at the won- 
ders of the establishment, without 
daring to approach within touching 
distance of the tempting merchan- 
dise ; but now, with a whole shilling 
in her possession, she could go right 
up to the counter and handle all the 
pretty things so alluringly displayed, 
while that kind lady relieved her of 
all anxiety on account of the charge 
with w T hich she had been entrusted. 
For once her time and her money 
were both her own. It is no won- 
der, therefore, that in the enjoyment 
of such unaccustomed freedom, as 
she turned over the whole stock of 
illustrated pamphlets, critically ex- 
amining both the pictorial contents 
and the covers, without being able to 
tell one letter from another, and 
finally weighing with perplexing mi- 
nuteness the counter attractions of 
Bluebeard and the Babe in the Man- 
ger, a good many minutes should 
have slipped away. 

But no sooner was the little senti- 
nel out of the house, than the stran- 
ger approached the sleeping babe, 
bent over him in such a way as to 
determine how profound was his re- 
pose ; then, that part of the exami- 
nation proving satisfactory, stepped 
out into the hall, looked up and 
down the stairs, listened a moment 
breathlessly, when she re-entered the 
room, hastily gathered the still sleep- 
ing child upon her arm, threw over 


him the corner of a large shawl she 
was wearing, slipped out of the 
room and closed the door behind 
her, hurried quietly down stairs, 
passed out on to the street, and, 
gliding along the sidewalk until the 
nearest corner was turned, ap- 
proached a closely-curtained car- 
riage, conveniently standing with the 
driver on his seat, the door of which 
was opened by a young man seated 
within as she came forward. 

“ Got him ?” he asked. 

“ Safe as a dollar,” was the wo- 
man’s reply, as she disappeared in- 
side. 

The young man gave a low whis- 
tle which the driver evidently un- 
derstood to be a signal, as he cracked 
his whip and the carriage went off 
at a rattling pace. 

Alice Plain was absent longer than 
she had expected to be. Haying de- 
livered her package, she discovered 
on her way homeward that the card 
she had received from Tom Sponge 
was missing, and, being anxious to 
retain the address of one who took 
such a kindly interest in her affairs, 
had returned to inquire for it, never 
dreaming of the mischief she was 
doing. All this took time, and she 
hurried to her lodgings with an 
anxiety almost amounting to a pre- 
sentiment of evil. Her very breath- 
ing ceased, and she all but sank to 
the floor, as she entered her room, 
and found that both her child and 
little six-years-old were gone. Her 
inaction was but momentary. Rush- 
ing wildly into the hall, she began to 
inquire of every one she met con- 
cerning the missing children. No 
one could give her the least satisfac- 


82 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


tion, until little six- years-old sud- 
appeared on the scene, flourishing a 
highly-embellished copy of Blue- 
beard, which had finally gained the 
victory over the Christ Child, and 
extravagantly rejoicing in her prize. 
At last, however, the little creature 
was induced to sufficiently abate her 
noisy enthusiasm to give an account 
of what she knew. Then the whole 
truth was realized. The babe had 
been stolen ; and the nearly frantic 
mother, regardless of all suggestions 
from her sympathizing acquaintan- 
ces, rushed from the house, and be- 
gan wildly to inquire of every one 
she met for information of her child. 
A curious crowd soon collected about 
ner, and, as soon as it was known 
what the cause of the sensation was, 
a half dozen tongues began to tell as 
many conflicting tales concerning 
what their owners had seen. One 
woman, however, had noticed a fe- 
male, with a babe on her arm, enter 
a close carriage, in which there was 
“ such a nice young man with glossy 
black hair, curly moustache, snap- 
ping keen eyes, and ” 

The mother had caught the words. 

“ Which way did they go ?” she ea- 
gerly interrupted. 

The woman pointed out the direc- 
tion, and Alice, breaking through 
the idle and gossiping circle about 
her, started wildly down the street 
that was indicated, and soon was 
lost sight of in the jostling crowd 
that thronged the way. 

That night, as Tom Sponge was 
returning to his garret from a neigh- 
boring bake-shop with his next day’s 
dinner, done up in a brown paper 
parcel, under his arm, the purchase 


of a few pennies he had luckily 
come into possession of, his atten- 
tion was drawn to the eccentric 
movements of a female evidently 
laboring under some mental or bo- 
dily derangement. He watched her 
until, coming under a street lamp, 
her features were suddenly exposed 
to view. Tom almost dropped his 
bundle as he recognized a face upon 
which his mind had been running 
ever since his visit to Alice Plain. 
But momentarily surprised and pa- 
ralyzed as he was, he was not per- 
mitted to remain long inactive. The 
woman staggered on a few steps and 
then sank apparently helpless upon 
the sidewalk. What was Tom to 
do ? It did not take him long to de- 
cide. Noticing that it was but a few 
steps to his lodging-house, he rushed 
forward, raised the woman to her 
feet, supported her to the street en- 
trance of the building, and then by 
main strength carried her up the se- 
veral flights of stairs leading to his 
room. There he laid her upon his 
apology for a bed, sprinkled a few 
drops of water in her face, and en- 
tered upon an investigation to disco- 
ver what was the matter. Alice her- 
self — for she it was — was too much 
exhausted to offer any explanation ; 
but from the few flighty words she 
spoke, all referring to her child, he 
was enabled to guess pretty accu- 
rately what had occurred. 

“ Poor, poor creature !” he ex- 
claimed, the tears standing in his 
eyes as he stood looking into the 
sweet but troubled face before him. 
Then, remembering that he still had 
a few pennies in his pocket, he hur- 
j ried down stairs, and soon returned 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


83 


with a draught, the product of his 
entire capital, which he supposed 
would be strengthening to the invalid. 

Several days passed over before 
Alice realized where she was. She 
was like one in a dream, neither 
asleep nor awake, her whole system 
disordered by over-excitement ; but 
during the whole time, had she been 
a princess, she could have found no 
more watchful care or delicate atten- 
tion than she received at the hands 
of Tom Sponge. True, he was not 
her only nurse. Having prevailed 
upon a poor, but kind-hearted, wo- 
man occupying a room in the same 
building to share his charge and 
perform such offices as a female 
could alone properly render, he was 
relieved of some of the burden ; but 
night or day, nothing he could do to 
minister to her comfort was lacking. 
Coxcomb he unquestionably was, and 
everything about his establishment 
too clearly proved him to be what he 
rather ostentatiously boasted — a 
wreck ; but no one, witnessing the 
gentleness of his attentions to that 
wronged and unfortunate woman and 
the extent of his self-sacrifice — often 
going without his own dinner that 
he might procure for her some need- 
ed delicacy — would have denied him 
the residue of his claim — that he 
was a gentleman. 

When Alice was restored to con- 
sciousness, although still very weak, 
Tom was as truly a comforter to her 
mind as he had been to her body, 
awakening hopes of speedily regain- 
ing her child through the assistance 
of the public authorities, with whom 
he claimed an influence and an inti- 
macy that were hardly justified by 


the facts. He could not see her 
suffer when, by the exercise of his 
inventive faculty, he possessed the 
power to bring her relief. It was 
arranged that, as soon as she was 
able to be transferred, she should 
take up her residence with Mrs. 
Garrett, the woman who had been 
Tom’s assistant, and with whom, for 
the time, he had exchanged apart- 
ments. 

i 

CHAPTER XIV. 
poverty’s funeral. 

Alice Plain had fallen into a 
quiet and refreshing slumber. Tom 
Sponge, who had merely stepped in 
to keep w r atch over the invalid dur- 
ing Mrs. Garrett’s absence on some 
pressing matter of her own, occupied 
the remnant of a chair, his back 
against the wall for support — for 
that portion of the chair which 
should have supplied that conveni- 
ence had long before disappeared — 
with his eyes feasting upon the pale 
and emaciated, but delicately sweet, 
countenance of the sleeper. It was 
an occupation, if such it might be 
called, Tom greatly delighted in ; 
and which, if the truth must be told, 
he had latterly given considerable of 
his time to. He never tired of it 
when, as at that particular time, he 
could pursue it without seeming im- 
pertinence ; for now that the sick 
woman was restored to mental con- 
sciousness, although physically still 
very weak, it was only at such chance 
occasions that the privilege was 
given him. He would not for any 
consideration have had her know 


84 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


that he was taking such a liberty. 
Tom, as we have seen, was the very 
soul of politeness. 

Suddenly he detected a piece of 
paper in one of Alice’s hands, which 
she, after examining it, had apparent- 
ly been in the act of restoring to its 
place in her bosom when sleep had 
overpowered her. An irresistible 
curiosity impelled him to ascertain 
its contents. Noiselessly rising and 
approaching the bed, he cautiously 
slipped the paper from her loosened 
fingers, and ran his eyes over the few 
lines of writing it contained. It 
was a marriage certificate, testifying 
that, on a date some two years be- 
fore, the subscriber, who described 
himself as a minister of the Gospel, 
had joined in the holy bands of wed- 
lock Henry Plain and Alice Spear, 
and was signed, “ David Hedding.” 

“ Ugh ! ugh !” said Tom, in an 
undertone, “ a document worth 
preserving,” and a gleam of peculiar 
intelligence sparkled in his eye. 
Then, sitting down beside his old 
dressing-case, which answered the 
double purpose of secretary and 
bureau, he began to examine some 
old letters one of the drawers con- 
tained. At last he was enabled to 
tear from one of them a piece of 
blank paper in size and appearance 
closely resembling that on which the 
certificate had been written. Then, 
taking pen and ink, he quickly exe- 
cuted an almost facsimile copy — for 
he was a skillful scribe — and, folding 
it into the shape of the original, 
slipped it into the woman’s hand, 
while the other was transferred to a 
place of security. 

The task was hardly completed 


before, with a cry of pain and appre- 
hension, Alice awoke. She had been 
dreaming of danger to her child, 
and it was some minutes before Tom, 
with all his efforts to allay her fears, 
could persuade her that she had 
seen nothing but a vision. And 
when he had succeeded in doing so, 
the returning memory of her real 
bereavement was almost as poignant 
as the tortures of her imagination. 

“ Oh, have you — have you learned 
— anything?” she imploringly, but 
doubtfully, inquired, looking up into 
Tom’s face. 

The man’s eyes filled with tears, 
and he had to remove several very 
troublesome obstructions from his 
throat before he could answer. 

“ No, Mrs. Plain ; nothing definite 
yet ” — laying particular stress on the 
last word, as he saw the look of pain 
that shot over her features — “no- 
thing yet ; but the Chief of Police 
assures me that he thinks he has 
found a clue. I was waiting for Mrs. 
Garrett to return, that I might go 
and see him.” 

“ Oh, do not delay — not a minute 
— on my account!” exclaimed the 
woman excitedly. “I can get on 
very well alone — I am so strong now. 
Oh, why don’t you go !” 

Tom was constrained to take his 
departure — for the sick woman’s im- 
patience was fast taking the form of 
petulance — although he would much 
have preferred remaining where he 
was, as the “clue” he referred to 
was purely his own invention, evoked 
not so much from any spirit of un- 
truthfulness, as from an over- abund- 
ance of pity for the suffering mother. 
After considerable delay, caused first 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


85 


by his anxiety to see that the invalid 
had everything essential to her com- 
fort — water by her bedside, her pil- 
low readjusted, a soothing tincture 
within reach ; and then by some 
little attentions to his own personal 
appearance — all very necessary when 
about to interview such an import- 
ant dignitary as the Chief of Police 
— he left the room, and the sad, 
stricken woman was alone with her 
sorrow, while Tom made his way to 
Clinton Maintland’s office to report 
progress there, totally regardless of 
what he had just been saying about 
the Police Department. 

Alice was not long to remain 
alone. 

Hearing the door cautiously open- 
ing, she languidly turned her tearful 
eyes in the direction of the sound, 
expecting to behold the portly per- 
son and broad visage of Mrs. Gar- 
rett, and met the bold, but searching 
glance of — Gordon Seacrist. 

“ Oh, Harry !” she exclaimed with 
joyful surprise, “ have you — have you, 
indeed, come back?” raising herself 
up in her excitement, and stretching 
out her arms, but falling back, ex- 
hausted by the effort. 

“ Now stop,” said Gordon, coldly, 
stationing himself at a little distance 
from the bed, and deliberately sur- 
veying the wasted woman. “Don’t 
you try that again. I see you are 
not strong — and, besides, such de- 
monstrations are useless on this oc- 
casion, as I have come purely on 
business.” 

“My child I” weakly faltered the 
•woman, speaking as if she had fully 
felt the chilling words just addressed 
to her. “You have my child!” 


“ Exactly,” replied Gordon, in the 
same sardonic tone. “ You come to 
the point at once. I have your 
child ; and he is safe where you will 
never get him — except with my per- 
mission. ” 

“ Oh, let me have him ! Let me 
have him !” 

“ Yery well ; you shall have him,” 
coldly responded Gordon to this 
outburst of maternal feeling, “for 
you, undoubtedly, think a good deal 
more of the brat than I do. But it 
shall be on one condition only. 
Listen, Alice Plain, or Alice Spear, 
whichever you choose to call your- 
self. You have a certain paper 
which I wish to get. It’s the proof 
of that little game you played on me 
when you forced me to go through 
the marriage ceremony in presence 
of a real priest, before you would let 
me have possession of you. It was 
exceedingly well done on your part. 
You had the power then, for you 
had bewitched me. Now the tables 
are turned. I have the power now, 
because your child is in my hands. 
That baby is my trump card. So I 
propose to get even with you, and 
say quits. If you will give me the 
paper, you shall have the baby. 
There — those are my terms.” 

“ You shall have it — you shall 
have it,” eagerly exclaimed Alice, 
putting her hand in her bosom ; 
but, quickly withdrawing it, as she 
added, “ but where is my child ?” 

“Not far off,” replied Gordon. 
“ You needn’t be afraid I’m trying to 
cheat you this time. I tell you it’s 
on the square. However you shall 
be satisfied.” 

With that he stepped out of the 


so 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


room, closing the door behind him, 
and soon returned in company with 
the woman who had purloined the 
infant in the first place. Very quietly 
reposing upon her arm, as if in deep 
sleep, was the baby. 

“Let me have him — let me have 
him !” cried Alice, starting up in her 
bed, as she caught a glimpse of the 
child, and, at the same time, holding 
out towards Gordon the paper Tom 
Sponge had put in her hand. 

“Stop,” said Gordon, stepping in 
between the two women in such a 
way as to intercept the mother’s 
view of the babe. “Not so fast. 
One word more, before this business 
is closed. Alice Spear — because that, 
from this time on, might as well be 
your name — for mine isn’t Plain, and 
never was — I want you distinctly to 
understand that this transaction 
finally and forever dissolves all 
partnership between us. That paper 
in your hand is the only existing 
evidence of our marriage. The 
minister that tied the knot is dead. 
That paper in a few minutes will be* 
destroyed, and it will be of no use 
for you ever afterwards to try to 
find me, or say anything to me. I 
won’t know you. You are to be per- 
fectly free, and can get another hus- 
band in the same way you got me, if 
you want to. I’m sorry to find you 
in this condition — on my soul I am 
— and I only regret that I’m not 
able to do better by you. That’s all 
the money I can spare.” And he 
threw upon the bed a roll of bil-ls, 
with a curse, spoken in an under- 
tone, upon somebody, the name 
sounding very much like Cummager. 

Of the speech just spoken Alice 


understood very little. Her whole 
mind was upon her child, as she sat 
holding the paper in her outstretched 
hand. 

“ All right !” said Gordon, after he 
had received and glanced over the 
document. “All right! let her have 
the urchin.” 

With a cry of delight Alice re- 
ceived the infant from the other wo- 
man, and began to press kiss after 
kiss upon its little face. But her ex- 
clamation of joy was speedily fol- 
lowed by one of rage and terror. 
The little one gave no response to 
her caresses. 

“ You have killed my child ! You 
have killed my child ! You are mur- 
derers— both of you,” she fiercely 
shouted. 

“ Murderers is it ?” exclaimed Gor- 
don’s companion, flaming up and 
taking a step menacingly towards 
her accuser. “ Murderers, do ye say ? 
It’s false. He’s no more dead than 
ye are yerself, madam. Only doc- 
tored a bit to keep him quiet. If 
he’s a trifle thinner than when I 
got him, it’s his own fault ; for he 
wouldn’t take to me at all — at all. 
Murderers ” 

But by this time her employer’s 
hand was upon the woman’s shoul- 
der, and his voice sounded in her 
ear : 

“Stop your noise, can’t you? and 
let’s be out of this.” 

With that Gordon and the woman 
hastily left the chamber. Hurrying 
down stairs, they entered a carriage 
that was in waiting on the street, 
and were rapidly driven away. They 
had proceeded but a few blocks, 
however, before the vehicle was 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


stopped, and Gordon, handing the 
woman a roll of money, said : 

“ Now, out of this ; and never let 
me see you again until I send for 
you. Recollect that I have the 
power to send you to the gallows, if 
you blab a word. You are not only 
a child-stealer, but you killed — you 
know who — and I can prove it. 
There, go !” 

The woman descended without a 
word and hurried away. 

The child did “come round” — 
that is, it was with considerable 
effort restored to consciousness, but 
never more to its wonted bloom and 
strength. The shock it had received 
was too much for its delicate organi- 
zation. Only beyond the Great Ri- 
ver, where it was soon to be received 
among the Celestials, was it to re- 
gain that brightness of which it had 
been so rudely bereft. Yet day after 
day it lingered before the spark went 
out, and left a depth of darkness in 
a mother’s soul that was more terri- 
ble than the grave. 

During those days of awful sus- 
pense, it would have been difficult to 
tell who was the greater sufferer, the 
sorely-tried and almost demented 
mother, or Tom Sponge. There was 
nothing the latter could do to lighten 
the burden of the other, which he 
did not willingly and anxiously do. 
He never seemed to think of any 
self-deprivation as a sacrifice. His 
bearing was that of the most devot- 
ed, but, at the same time, most chi- 
valrous friend. 

A few days went by, and there 
was a funeral from the rickety tene- 
ment in which Tom had his habita- 
tion. It was a very small — a really 


87 

insignificant affair. It was a child’s 
funeral, and there was but one coach, 
and but three persons besides the 
coffined little one in it. The ceme- 
tery was reached — not one of those 
splendid burial sites which are made 
not merely beautiful, but cheerful by 
the hand of art — but a lonely spot 
set apart for the ingathering of the 
nameless dead. There a heart-bro- 
ken mother was upheld beside a ba- 
by’s grave by Mrs. Garrett on the 
one hand, and by Tom Sponge on 
the other. And when the hasty se- 
pulture was over — for there was no 
priest to stay the work — only two 
rough, sweaty laborers in working 
dress — that woman so fearfully be- 
reft — so cruelly wronged — was borne 
from the spot, too faint to be her 
own support, by the willing arm of a 
luckless “wreck,” the only faithful 
and disinterested friend she had in 
all the world. 

Still it must not be supposed that 
Tom Sponge was anything other 
than what he had always been. He 
had made the most elaborate prepa- 
ration compatible with his means for 
the occasion. His neck-tie of gor- 
geous colors was conspicuously dis- 
played. His gloves were faultlessly 
adjusted, and — the grandest incident 
in his career for many a day — 
through Clinton Mainland’s muni- 
ficence, he was enabled to appear for 
the first time in a bran-new coat, an 
exact fit, and in the very latest 
fashion. Good Mrs. Garrett was ar- 
rayed in simple calico ; but Tom 
was magnificent in broadcloth, and a 
wide strip of crape, foppishly knot- 
ted with a great bow, floated grandly 
from his arm. 


88 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


CHAPTEE XY. 

A SHORT CHAPTER. 

Thus far my story lias resembled a 
picture gallery, in which the exami- 
ner is, perhaps, treated in one obser- 
vation to a broad and quiet land- 
scape ; in the next to a rough and 
sterile mountain ; in the third to a 
rich and populous city ; while the 
fourth, is, possibly, a dreadful battle 
scene with dying men and rearing 
horses, and all the other sad and 
bad accompaniments of horrid war. 
There is no conceivable connection 
between them as they are separately 
looked upon, each being a perfect 
picture in itself. But all, neverthe- 
less, may be thoroughly truthful tran- 
scripts of scenes and incidents within 
the same, and that a by no means 
extensive, territory. It only needs 
the filling up of the intermediate 
spaces to make the harmony com- 
plete. 

The writer of these pages has 
introduced sundry parties, some of 
whom, he hopes, have secured the 
reader’s sympathy, and all of whom 
have, doubtless, awakened some mea- 
sure of interest ; but in groupings 
so distinct as to suggest the ques- 
tion, what imaginable connection can 
there be between them ? In so much 
of the tale as remains to be told, the 
author trusts to be able to vindicate 
the consistency of his work, by exhi- 
biting a view broad enough to take 
in all the glimpses already given, 
and demonstrate the necessity of 
each to the whole. But before en- 
tering upon this part of his task, he 
deems it advisable to follow the ex- 


ample of play-wrights, who, in the 
exercise of their art, are accustomed, 
at some point in the performance, to 
drop the curtain upon the stage and 
give their audience a breathing spell, 
while the movement of the comedy 
is presumed to be unbroken, indicat- 
ing in the bills the precise period at 
which the piece will be resumed, 
with a brief epitome of the interme- 
diate occurrences. 

Before the curtain again rises upon 
the dramatis personas of this story 
in a second Book, the period of 
twelve months is supposed to have 
gone round. In that time Barton 
Seacrist has been a candidate for the 
mayoralty of New York, notwith- 
standing his own urgent plea for 
rest from the excitement of political 
strife, and has been beaten through 
the defection, at the last moment, of 
the Mohicans, under the leadership 
of Abel Cummager. One of the 
“ points ” in contemplation by father 
and daughter had temporarily failed. 
Nevertheless, a dinner to his friends 
was given by the unsuccessful, but 
still cheerful aspirant to civic honors, 
at which he was once more enthusia- 
stically nominated for the place, and 
which, to the surprise of every one 
except Barton Seacrist, was attend- 
ed by Abel Cummager. 

To other parties that have been 
brought to the reader’s notice, the 
interval passed over had brought 
results of yet deeper interest. The 
second Book opens upon Clinton 
Maintland in the full tide of a suc- 
cessful professional career, looked 
upon by every one as a most pros- 
perous man, and by himself as the 
happiest of mortals ; for it finds 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


89 


him the accepted suitor of the bril- 
liant Kate Seacrist. 

Fortune, too, had favored the woo- 
ing of another of our acquaintances. 
Margaret Kortright had pledged her 
hand to Gordon Seacrist. The vic- 
tory had been won only at the end 
of a long and arduous siege, attend- 
ed with numerous gallant attacks 
and mortifying repulses. The assail- 
ant would, probably, have given up 
the struggle as hopeless, had he not 
possessed within the beleaguered 
works a devoted ally in Clara Baf- 
ford, who grew more pronounced 
in Gordon’s cause, the more desper- 
ate it appeared. Both of their efforts, 


however, would have been unavail- 
ing, but for the confusion into which 
Margaret was thrown by her loss of 
confidence in Clinton Maintland. 
As her good opinion of one man had 
proved fallacious, she naturally in- 
ferred that her bad opinion of an- 
other might be equally wrong. 
Charity begat sympathy, and Gor- 
don’s extreme plausibility, with 
Clara’s constant indorsement, in 
time compelled the surrender of a 
but languidly defended heart. 

As for Tom Sponge, the latest 
but not least of the heroes intro- 
duced upon the stage, he was still 
Tom Sponge. 


00 


FIVE HBNDBED MAJOBITY. 


BOOK SECOND. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MARROW IN THE BONE. 

From so much of this tale as has 
already been told, it will be seen that 
its principal hero has safely crossed 
the breakers that fringe the sea of 
city life, and is now apparently sail- 
ing in smooth waters. To this point 
he has been piloted chiefly by an 
education which led him instinctively 
to shun the grosser temptations that 
he, some bare and threatening like 
out-cropping rocks, and others hid- 
den beneath a placid and deceitful 
surface, all over the main to which 
he has entrusted his bark. But his 
^initial success must be ascribed in 
part, at least, to a positive power 
capable of enforcing progress in the 
face of opposing obstructions, as 
well as to the influence of a restrain- 
ing guardianship. Clinton Maint- 
land’s triumph, up to the point to 
which we have borne him company, 
would never have been possible but 
for this one fact — and it is the crown- 
ing secret of every young man’s suc- 
cess who alone and unaided has 
made his way to fortune in New 
York — that he entered with a defi- 


nite object in view, and stubbornly 
adhered to it through every discour- 
agement. In that way he was en- 
abled to shun the two supremest 
perils that await all hazarding a 
city’s experience, who may have es- 
caped the dissipations that overwhelm 
so many at the outset, or undermine 
them when their feet have seemingly 
reached the solid land. 

One is the temptation to join the 
impetuous throng who chase Fortune 
at the call and cheer of a mad and 
bewildering spirit of speculation. 
In the midst of that deep whereon 
we have seen our youthful voyager 
risk his course, there is an island, 
and on it a palace whose walls are of 
solid gold, and whose summit, blend- 
ing with the rays of the sun whose 
brightness its earth-born glories 
rival, lifts the imagination into re- 
gions of unattainable splendor. The 
voices that issue from it, sounding 
like peals of wildest and merriest 
laughter, seem to be the culmination 
of earthly happiness. He who hears 
those Circean calls, as he drifts in 
the path of the storm, or lies be- 
calmed upon the sullen waters, longs 
to leap upon the shore, and, like the 
gold-hunters of old, burning his 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


91 


vessel behind him, rush at once 
through the palace’s broad open 
portal, and join in the revel and the 
riot within. If he does, he finds 
that only madmen are there ; that 
the sounds he took to be laughter 
and sallies of delight, are voices of 
rage and despair ; that the inmates 
are simply desperate combatants, 
rending and tearing each other, each 
seeking to trample his brother under 
foot. They are worshippers of Mam- 
mon, that evil god who, inspiring 
his followers with his own malignant 
and mischievous spirit, makes sport 
of their folly, even as he adds to its 
fiame. Like the fabled one who 
scattered golden apples as the seeds 
of discord in her path, the divinity 
to whom this temple has been 
reared, casts among his adorers the 
bauble of sudden wealth, and laughs 
to see them struggle for its possession 
— and never so loudly as when the 
strongest and craftiest, crushing the 
weaker under his feet, exultingly 
seizes the prize, only to find it melt 
into thin air in his grasp. Thus 
does the battle go on forever. 

And yet, strange to say, such is 
the atmosphere of the place that the 
new-comer, even as he beholds the 
dead and the dying all about him, is 
quickly seized with the prevailing 
infatuation, and rushes madly into 
the thickest of the fray. 

The other danger to which allu- 
sion has been made, is scarcely less 
enticing and fatal. Whoever has 
studied Cole’s magnificent picture 
of Youth, in his unrivalled Voyage 
of Life — and who is there that has 
no t? — remembers with what eager- 
ness the boyish hero of the canvas 


pursues the baseless vision of that 
castle in the air which emblemizes 
Fame. So the adventurer upon the 
sea we have been contemplating, 
growing weary and sick at heart as 
he waits for the breeze which is to 
bear him onward, and dazzled by a 
mirage-like prospect of surpassing 
promise, is tempted to turn from his 
course and go in quest of a prize 
even more difficult of attainment 
than princely wealth. He would 
reach the shrine of Literary Fame. 
He sees the splendid structure, with 
its glittering spires and beauteous 
porches, apparently resting on the 
summit of the nearest mountain, the 
sides of which would seem to offer 
no obstruction to his feet. But if, 
abandoning his appointed way, he 
undertakes the ascent, he finds im- 
pediments, before unseen and un- 
dreamed of, at every step. The 
trials of the literary aspirant, who, 
feeling that he has within him the 
merit of success, meets only repulse, 
disappointment and unappreciation, 
become his in all their bitterness, 
and none are so hard to bear. Par- 
tial achievement is even more aggra- 
vating than utter failure, leaving its 
victim the starving slave of inexora- 
ble hopes. 

From these two dangers, which, 
without wholly varying the imagery 
employed, may be described as the 
Scylla and Charybdis to every seeker 
after Fortune, who with a not dis- 
honorable ambition, trusts himself to 
the tortuous currents of a city’s 
drifting tide, it will be seen that our 
hero has escaped. Heaven preserved 
him from both ! 

But is he yet secure ? Bo no pe- 


92 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


rils await the successful man ? Alas, 
in that great and selfish metropolis 
which we have seen the youthful 
candidate for life’s most cherished 
blessings enter and resolutely battle 
with, the number who have gone 
down in shipwreck, even after the 
perils already enumerated have been 
safely passed, tell of others even 
more insidious that remain. Many 
or few, however, it is the writer’s 
purpose now to allude to but one. 

It is not until a man has begun to 
be successful that Politics seeks him 
out. Before that time, whatever his 
merit, he may woo her attentions in 
vain. She has neither eyes nor ears 
to give him. But no sooner does 
the world begin to smile upon him, 
than the most dangerous of all Si- 
rens — the most heartless and faith- 
less of all coquettes — sets up her song 
of invitation and spreads her net in 
his pathway, and few there be among 
the young men of the land strong 
enough to withstand her fascination. 

And why should politics be a 
source of danger to any one under a 
government like ours? There can 
be no more beautiful system than we 
possess. Here justice and virtue are 
always triumphant, for the people 
rule. The will of the majority is the 
supreme law. Men are chosen to 
stations of honor and trust with 
sole reference to merit. The honest 
and capable are promoted — the un- 
deserving cast down. Distinction 
and power are the rewards of the 
faithful, while punishment is swift to 
overtake the violator of public or 
private right. Integrity is the rule 
of official life and practice — knavery 
the exception — for the perfection of 


human wisdom has at last been 
attained. Surely there can be no 
risk in honorable ambition^ where a 
theory at once so grand and so sim- 
ple prevails. So has argued many a 
brave and trustful spirit, when all 
the world seemed beckoning on to 
high endeavor ; and, so arguing, has 
entered upon the most tortuous, the 
most perilous of all the paths open 
to the youth of the land. 


CHAPTER II. 

TAMMANY. 

“ Tammany, ugh ! I know all about 
Tammany.” 

And Tom Sponge went into a 
throat-clearing operation which was 
always premonitory of a coming 
shower of words. He was still at 
heart the same impulsive, thought- 
less vagabond, to whom the reader 
was introduced in the preceding 
Book, but — twelve months hav- 
ing gone round — externally how 
changed! The creature which is one 
day a miserable grub and the next 
sports a glorious butterfly, has un- 
dergone no more startling transfor- 
mation , than had overtaken this 
random specimen of New York’s 
hand-to-mouth adventurer. He was 
utterly dependent for everything he 
had upon the bounty of Clinton 
Maintland, to whom he had managed 
to make himself both agreeable and 
expensive ; but, for all that, had he 
been a millionnaire in his own right, 
he could not have been more resplen- 
dent in a complete outfit of the very 
latest fashion. His bosom, so long 


FIVE HUNDKED MAJOEITY. 


93 


condemned to obscurity by the rags 
that had partly covered it, was now 
a bank of snowy whiteness, bor- 
dered by the deep carnation of a 
brilliant vest, while over all the long 
streamers of his delicately spotted 
neck-tie swayed to and fro as he 
spoke, like waving branches full of 
apple blossoms. But the crowning 
splendor, after all, was an extensive 
breast-pin of the purest wash and 
glass, recently purchased, which had 
taken the long vacated place of a 
similar decoration of real gold and 
diamond that had years before been 
consigned to the pawn-broker, and 
never redeemed. 

His companion, on the occasion of 
his present appearance, was no other 
than Clinton Maintland, who, hav- 
ing a leisure hour, was in the hu- 
mor to be amused by Tom’s ram- 
bling talk. 

“ Yes sir, I know all about Tam- 
many. I’ve gone through Tamma- 
ny’s mill. I’ve been crushed — ground 
to powder — pulverized — and Tam- 
many did it. It’s a dreadful despot, 

I tell you — Tammany is ; and the 
man who submits to its control, puts 
his neck under a tyrant’s heel. He’ll 
be trampled on sooner or later if he 
dares to have a soul of his 1 own. 
Tammany brooks no freedom of 
thought or action. Whoever con- 
sents to wear its harness, must keep 
step in tfce traces or be run over. 

“ You don’t know Tammany’s his- 
tory, do you ? I’ll tell you : It 
sprung from the brain of Aaron 
Burr. Its father was a wizard, and 
its mother a bawd. The child has 
been a devil. Its whole life has 
been a lie. Under the pretence of 


defending popular rights, it has aimed 
at absolute political control. In the 
name of freedom it has practiced the 
most despotic centralization. Under 
the mask of democracy it has estab- 
lished an oligarchy as complete as 
the Doges of old Venice. Its Sa- 
chems are kings, wearing scalp-locks 
instead of crowns. They cover over 
their operations with the trickery of 
the clown. They tickle the people 
that they may more successfully rob 
them. Oh, it was a deep invention 
to dress up the men who were to be 
our masters in paint and feathers ! 
The masses like to be thus imposed 
upon. They are pleased with the 
idea of primitive simplicity. They 
think it betokens honesty. They 
will submit to imposition from In- 
dians they would never tolerate from 
white men. It was a scheme worthy 
of Burr or the devil — whichever was 
its originator. 

“ Tammany, I tell you, has always 
been a tyrant. It opposed Hamil- 
ton and shot him. It opposed De 
Witt Clinton, and finally killed him. 
It opposed me — Tom Sponge — and 
crushed me, insignificant as I was. 
It will oppose and crush any one it 
can who has a mind and a soul of 
his own. It tolerates no political 
freedom, because it knows no moral 
principle. It is a corporation, soul- 
less and absolute. It knows no mo- 
tive above self. It recognizes no 
standard higher than interest. It 
believes every man has his price, and 
its policy is to buy when it cannot 
drive or wheedle. It reduces every- 
thing to a commercial basis. It is 
organized corruption. It uses men 
while it can profitably, and then re- 


94 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


jects heartlessly. To seek its service 
is to enter the market. If you want 
to remain a free man, keep out of its 
clutches. If you want to sell your- 
self to Satan, go to Tammany as 
the purchaser.” 

“ Silence, Tom !” 

The words betrayed just the slight- 
est trace of anger. Clinton had 
supposed that he was proof against 
irritation on account of anything 
Sponge might say. He even, occa- 
sionally, liked to hear him rail out in 
his loose and reckless style. But, at 
the same time, he was a Democrat ; 
all of his political predilections were 
on the side to which Tammany be- 
longed ; and, besides, he expected 
soon to be the son-in-law of the 
most powerful of all the Tammany 
Sachems. It is no wonder, therefore, 
that his temper was touched. But, 
the next moment, discovering the 
folly of taking offence at anything 
Tom Sponge might say, he added, 
with a little laugh : 

“ Nonsense, Tom ! you talk like a 
crazy man ; or, what is more unrea- 
sonable still, a disappointed one.” 

Now Tom, strong as his feeling 
was against Tammany, was not one 
to quarrel with his bread and butter 
on a mere matter of opinion ; so he 
added in an apologistic tone : 

“ I speak strongly, because I feel 
deeply. I have been a victim. ” 

“Very well, Tom, let us have your 
story,” rejoined Clinton, completely 
restored to good humor. “I see 
that you are bursting full of it.” 

“ Ugh ! ugh ! You must know 
that I once had prospects, ugh! 
friends, ugh ! money, ugh ! as I 
think I have told you once already.” 


“ Fifty times at least ; but what 
had Tammany to do with their 
loss ?” 

“Everything! Everything! Lis- 
ten ! When I was a somewhat 
younger man than I am now — well, 
about your age — there were few 
young men in New York who pre- 
sented a more superb appearance 
than * Dandy Tom Sponge/ as I was 
called. I wore the neatest boots, 
the truest kids, the gayest vests, the 
loveliest neck-ties, the ” 

“ But what had Tammany ” 

“ I am coming to that. As may 
be inferred, I was admired, courted, 
petted — especially by the ladies. I 
had my little affairs as well as other 
gentlemen of taste — might have 
married a dozen fortunes — first fami- 
lies — and all that sort of thing — 
but ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ I had a heart.” 

“ A heart — but what had that to do 
with Tammany?” 

“ Why, you see, I had become ac- 
quainted with one of the sweetest, 
purest, loveliest, dearest creatures. 
Oh, I tell you, she was a star, a gem, 
a — ugh ! — a ” 

“ Venus ?” 

“Yes, yes! a perfect goddess — 
only she had a father.” 

“Nothing very remarkable in 
that !” 

“ But Adelia’s parent was a Demo- 
crat — a Tammany Democrat — he 
was in the Street Department — and 
I — I had been a Whig ; then a 
Know-Nothing ; then a Free Soiler ; 
then a Republican. You see I had 
political principles.” 

“ Plenty of them, I discover.” 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


95 


“ Now Adelia’s parent had resolved 
that nobody should marry his daugh- 
ter but a Democrat ; and, what was 
still more embarrassing, I found that 
Adelia herself — ah, she was an ador- 
able creature ! — was of the same de- 
termination. So, you see, I had 
either to surrender my soul’s conso- 
lation or my political convictions. 
You can imagine the struggle.” 

“ Love vs. Principle.” 

“ At last Love conquered — "when, 
indeed, did it fail to do so? — and 
Adelia made me the happiest man in 
the world.” 

“ What ! did she marry you ?” 

“ No ; but she said I was such a 
nice, handsome man, w T hen I in- 
formed her of my change of views. 
I have told you, I believe, that I 
dressed elegantly in those days.” 

“ Yes ; but go on. I am getting 
interested.” 

“ Tammany ” 

“But what had Tammany to do 
with it?” 

“ Well, it all happened in this 
way : Adelia so impressed me with 
my superior looks, that I thought I 
ought to have a position commen- 
surate with my merits. I was never 
made for obscurity. Accordingly 
my mind turned to the Bench. I 
had read law a little, and had been 
admitted to the Bar, although I had 
never burdened myself with the 
drudgeries of the practice. But 
then my figure and my outfit. There 
could be no doubt of my qualifica- 
tions. I submitted the matter to 
Adelia, and she fully agreed with me. 
She said she was resolved to marry 
a Judge. It would be so nice to 
have one’s husband sit up like a 


monument, and all the people ad- 
dress him as ‘Your Honor.’ So it 
was settled that I was to go on the 
Bench, and we were to be married 
as soon as I was Judge Sponge. 
There didn’t seem to be any difficulty 
stbout it, as I was now a good Demo- 
crat. All I needed was to have the 
Tammany nomination, and to obtain 
that I went to work. I saw every 
leading man in the Tammany Asso- 
ciation ; gave a dinner to one ; a 
supper to another ; laid a wager 
with a third that I was certain to 
lose ; bought a fourth out and out ; 
and not only placed every man under 
obligation to me, but got his solemn 
promise — his solemn promise, re- 
member — to do all he could for me. 
Well, would you believe it ? such is 
the treachery there is in that organ- 
ization, when the time for the nomi- 
nation came, they selected a man 
who looked more like a monkey than 
a Judge — no figure, and without even 
the taste to dress himself decently — 
actually giving me the go-by, on the 
pretence that I was lacking in quali- 
fications.” 

“As you might infer, that was 
more than I could stand. My prin- 
ciples would not suffer me to remain 
in association with men guilty of 
such duplicity. I went back to my 
old political associates, received the 
nomination from them, and went 
before the people on my merits.” 

“ Your looks, you mean.” 

“Well, well ; it was pretty much 
the same. There was a tremendous 
contest — nothing ever like it in New 
York — immense excitement — grand 
rallies — big speeches — heavy betting, 
etc., etc., as the newspapers say. I 


96 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


took the stump in my most elegant 
outfit ; and I tell you I produced a 
sensation. I told the people I didn’t 
care a fig for the office — that I was 
merely fighting their battle against 
a political monopoly and mass of 
corruption. I gave Tammany no 
quarter, I assure you. So damaging 
were my assaults that my adversaries, 
becoming alarmed, raised a mob and 
drove me from the stand with rotten 
apples and stale eggs, completely 
ruining my costliest suit. I then 
bought up a newspaper, wrote my 
own puffs, and so lampooned the 
enemy that the publisher was in- 
dicted for libel. But for the frauds 
to which Tammany resorted I should 
certainly have been triumphantly 
elected. As it was, I was beaten ; 
and the most remarkable thing about 
it, by just Twenty Thousand Ma- 
jority.” 

“ Why, what is there remarkable 
in that number ?” 

“ Simply this : that it was the 
precise majority on which the Tam- 
many men made their bets.” 

“ Singular, I confess.” 

“ Conclusive — perfectly conclusive, 
I say.” 

“ But Adelia ?” 

“ Oh, she married the Judge — my 
adversary. It was a terrible blow, I 
assure you. It completely shattered 
my heart. But that was not the 
worst. The canvass took all my 
money ; for when I was fighting for 
principle, I did not stop to calculate 
expense. And when my money was 
gone, I found my friends were gone. 
I became simply Tom Sponge, the 
wreck and vagabond, to be kicked 
by everybody with the soul to kick 


the dog that comes in his way ; and 
precious few I’ve found without it. 
That’s what Tammany has done.” 

“ A very hard case, I admit,” re- 
marked Clinton, struggling hard to 
retain a sober countenance, “ but I 
don’t yet see that you have made out 
a case against Tammany, although 
you found some of its members un- 
trustworthy.” 

“ Not made out a case !” exclaimed 
Tom, springing excitedly to his feet, 
and laying his hand solemnly upon 
his heart. “ Wait till you have be- 
come a victim. Wait till you are 
crushed beneath the tyrant’s heel, as 
I have been ; and, as a man of in- 
tegrity and independence, sooner or 
later, you are pretty certain to be, 
and then decide whether or not I 
have made out a case.” 

“Well, well!” said Clinton sooth- 
ingly, “ I do not discover that you 
are so badly crushed after all.” 

“ Perhaps not,” answered Tom, as 
he at that moment caught the reflec- 
tion of his elaborately dressed per- 
son in a looking-glass suspended 
from the wall. “ I certainly do not 
feel so much so since I have had on 
these clothes. It is marvellous how 
being respectably dressed does lift a 
man up. I begin to think that I 
may be of use to somebody in the 
world yet — a wreck, but a gentle- 
man, you know.” 

“No doubt of it,” answered Clin- 
ton. “But now I see my time for 
talk is ended. I have an engage- 
ment.” 

With that our young Democrat 
took the gentlemanly “wreck” by 
the hand, shook it warmly, and then, 
as per appointment, started to pay a 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


V7 


lover’s visit to a Tammany Sacliem’s 
daughter. 


CHAPTER III. 

HE MUST SERVE. 

“No doubt of it. Let that mea- 
sure be secured, and all we have 
been working for is within our reach; 
nay, more than we have even dared 
to hope for. The State of New York 
rules the country ; the city of New 
York rules the State; Tammany rules 
the city, and — we rule Tammany. 
What limit need there be to our 
power ?” 

The speaker smiled complacently ; 
but his companion continued to wear 
a look of more than usual serious- 
ness. The speaker was Barton Sea- 
crist ; his companion was his daugh- 
ter Kate. The two had been dis- 
cussing a scheme that had com- 
manded their most earnest consider- 
ation. 

“ You forget that we have yet to 
obtain the favorable action of the 
Legislature before the project can in 
any wise avail us,” was Kate’s depre- 
cative response to her father’s ob- 
servation. 

“No, Kate, I do not forget. I 
have considered, and, I think, fully 
provided for that point. As the Le- 
gislature is certain to be constituted, 
we need, to obtain from it whatever 
action we desire, only one thing, and 
that is to have as a member of that 
body the proper party to look after 
our interests. He must be one com- 
petent in debate, agreeable in man- 
ner, not enough of a partisan to ex- 
cite political opposition, and so tho- 


roughly devoted to us that there can 
be no question of his fidelity.” 

“But where is such a one to be 
found?” 

“ I know the man.” 

“Who, father?” 

“Clinton Maintland.” 

The blush which sprang to the 
brow of Kate Seacrist at the men- 
tion of that name quickly faded, and 
was succeeded by a shade of unu- 
sual pallor, as she somewhat hesitat- 
ingly responded : 

“ But are you convinced that Clin- 
ton will consent to serve in the capa- 
city you mention? There are fea- 
tures in that scheme I should ex- 
pect him to disapprove of. As my 
future husband, I could almost wish, 
that he would decline the commis- 
sion.” 

“ He must serve. 

“ He must serve,” Barton Seacrist 
repeated even more emphatically af- 
ter a momentary pause. “ He must 
be made to see that his interest as 
well as ours is involved — very deep- 
ly involved.” 

Although Kate plainly winced at 
these words, as she said nothing in 
reply, her father went on. 

“Even should he fail to be con- 
vinced by me, he will hardly be able 
to withstand such arguments as you 
will bring to bear upon him. I am 
not afraid to trust him to your 
eloquence.” 

These last words were accompa- 
nied with a glance of such signifi- 
cance that Kate visibly colored un- 
der it, the blush again fading into 
a troubled, almost startled look. 

“Oh, father, I fear that you do 
not know Clinton Maintland as I 


98 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


do !” sh e exclaimed. “ He is not one 
of the parties you are accustomed to 
deal with. There is something bet- 
ter, nobler, purer in his nature than 
belongs to the men with whom we 
are daily brought in contact, and 
who do our work without asking or 
caring what principle is involved. I 
w r ould not for anything have him 
know that I was familiar with some 
of the provisions of the measure wre 
have been considering — much less 
had suggested a portion of them.” 

Barton Seacrist looked at his 
daughter curiously, searchingly, but 
with no sign of relinquishing his 
purpose, before he replied. Then 
his response went only to her last re- 
mark : 

“ No necessity, girl, that he should 
know you have any part in the mat- 
ter. Can’t a daughter advocate her 
father’s view’s on general principles, 
without knowing* or caring what they 
are ? It is filial duty for her to do 
«o. Clinton, I say, must serve.” 

A few hours after the foregoing 
conversation, in the same room in 
which it had taken place, were 
seated Barton Seacrist and Clinton 
Maintland. The manner of the 
first w r as very gracious, almost patron- 
izing. He took the lead in the talk, 
beginning with some general observ- 
ations which, although seemingly 
spoken without design, were excel- 
lently calculated to arouse any poli- 
tical ambition the younger man 
might entertain. The advantage — 
the duty — of competent persons, and 
particularly of young men, actively 
participating in public affairs, were 
skillfully set forth, accompanied with 
a remark regretfully and feelingly 


referring to the speaker’s declining 
strength. There was work to be 
done, he said, for which he began to 
feel himself incompetent. Other 
and stronger hands were needed 
where his had been employed. Gra- 
dually the conversation was made 
to turn on matters nearer personal, 
and step by step the leading features 
of the scheme which the speaker and 
his daughter had so shortly before 
been discussing, were cautiously un- 
folded. Then, before the listener 
had opportunity to express any 
opinion of his own, Barton Seacrist 
proposed to Clinton that he should 
consent to enter the State Legisla- 
ture, and there give his support to 
the measure. 

At first a surprised, and then a 
troubled, expression appeared on 
Clinton Mainland’s countenance. 
Hurriedly and somewhat awkwardly 
he began to declare his indisposition 
for a public life, and his desire to 
confine himself to his profession. 
This objection, which had evidently 
been anticipated, w r as at once met in 
a w T ay which precluded any further 
reliance upon it. Clinton had now 
to deal with one who was a thorough 
master of the tactics involved in 
such a discussion. 

“The measure is one which I 
consider necessary — absolutely ne- 
cessary to myself and my friends.” 

These words were spoken in a 
cold, measured tone, while the speak- 
er’s eye, so clear and penetrating, 
never turned from the young man’s 
countenance. It was unnecessary 
for Barton Seacrist to add, “And 
are you, who are about to become a 
member of my family, unwilling to 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


99 


make that much sacrifice for me and 
mine?” Clinton felt the full force 
of the implication. The color mount- 
ed quickly to his face, and for a time 
he seemed to be contending with a 
state of indecision which his wily 
companion was quick to notice, and 
which he greeted with a look that 
was half way between a smile and a 
sneer. The struggle, however, was 
but brief. Clinton saw the folly of 
further evasion. Mustering all his 
resolution, and raising his eyes with 
an expression so calm and determined 
that even Barton Seacrist’s sank be- 
fore them, he went on to speak : 

“But, Mr. Seacrist, there are cer- 
tain features belonging to the scheme 
suggested which I could not consci- 
entiously indorse. The effect of the 
measure, it seems to me, would be to 
take from the people powers right- 
fully belonging to them, that they 
might be given over to a few indivi- 
duals. I am a Democrat, and to 
favor such a proposition would do 
violence to the principles I have 
most firmly cherished. Be ally, I 
must be excused from such service.” 

“ Oh, certainly,” replied the old 
man, with a gracious smile, but at 
the same time with a nervous twitch- 
ing of his thin and colorless lips, “ I 
could not insist, when your unwilling- 
ness rests on that ground and he 
quickly and skillfully turned the 
conversation into another channel. 
He continued to talk on most plea- 
santly until Clinton rose to depart. 
Then, looking after the young man’s 
departing form, as an expression of 
unusual perplexity gathered on his 
brow, he exclaimed, speaking to him- 
self, but aloud : 


“More troublesome than I sup- 
posed ; but Kate must bring him 
round — Kate must bring him 
round !” 

The next interview to which the 
reader is to be made a witness was 
between Clinton Maintland and Kate 
Seacrist. It occurred soon after the 
one just described. Kate was un- 
commonly, almost startlingly, pale, 
but, therefore, none the less inter- 
esting in her lover’s eyes ; and her 
manner was languishing, instead of, 
as ordinarily, full of sparkle and 
vivacity. Was she indisposed ? She 
admitted that she did not feel strong. 
Did she wish to be left _ alone ? 
No, no, no ; and her eyes more than 
confirmed the language of her lips. 
It was incumbent upon her affianced, 
consequently, to be more than usu- 
ally devoted in his attentions. There 
was no repulse from Kate, although 
her previous policy had been to hold 
her lover to a prudent reserve. First 
his arm encircled her waist ; then a 
kiss was taken ; then another ; then 
her form, but a plaything in his 
strong arms, was transferred to his 
knee ; and finally her head rested 
confidingly upon his shoulder. But 
at this crisis Clinton was astonished 
to find that his companion was in 
tears. Immediately flashed upon 
his mind the conviction that the 
source of her depression was not so 
much bodily as mental. Was she 
unhappy ? She did not deny it. 
What was t]ae matter ? It was no- 
thing. But nothing sometimes 
means a great deal, and Clinton was 
not to be thus put off. And so, 
finally, but most reluctantly, Kate 
confessed that the matter was that 


100 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


lier father was seriously disturbed 
by Clinton’s refusal to do some 
small service he had asked. Clinton 
was surprised — grieved at the intelli- 
gence ; but did Kate know the prin- 
ciple that was involved in her father’s 
request, and the reason which had 
led her lover to decline compliance ? 
No, no, she did not know, and she 
did not want to know. She only 
knew that her father would not ask 
anything that was wrong or very un- 
reasonable, and that she was very 
unhappy. But she must listen, that 
she might understand the ground 
her lover had for his decision. No, 
she would not listen ; she now knew 
that Clihton did not love her, or he 
would not refuse what was so little 
to him, but so much to her ; and, 
slipping out of his arms, she was on 
the point of hurrying from the 
room. 

“ Oh, Kate, you do me wrong !” 
he exclaimed appealingly, springing 
to his feet and intercepting her. 
“ Listen but for one moment. There 
is nothing I would not do for you.” 

He hardly knew — certainly did 
not consider — what he was saying. 
Nor was opportunity given for either 
withdrawal or qualification. 

“ Oh, thanks ! thanks for those 
words ! I knew that you would not 
refuse me.” 

And, as she spoke, springing to- 
ward him, Kate threw her arms pas- 
sionately about Clinton’s neck, and 
burried her face in his bosom, con- 
tinuing to faintly murmur words of 
thankfulness. Clinton pressed her 
warmly to him, and held her in a 
long, long embrace, before the 
thought of his own blunder, or her 


mistake, occurred to him ; and then 
it seemed so hard to undeceive her. 
What should he do ? he asked him- 
self. The sweat gathered upon his 
brow, as he continued to stand in a 
state of pitiable indecision, with the 
head of her he loved nestling near 
his heart. But he w r as not prepared 
to surrender his honest convictions 
even yet. 

“ Kate, dearest Kate !” 

The tone in which the words were 
spoken sounded harsh from compul- 
sory firmness ; but what was intend- 
ed to follow remained unuttered. 

The girl, at the sound of his voice, 
gave a slight, convulsive start, 
looked up in his face in a sort 
of wandering way, and then sank 
to the floor at his feet in a swoon. 

“Forgive me, Kate! Oh, forgive 
me!” cried Clinton, forgetting in the 
agony of the moment that the blow 
he was meditating had not been 
struck, as he gathered the slight 
form of the prostrate woman in 
his arms, and covered her brow with 
burning kisses. Then, as she showed 
no sign of consciousness, he bore 
her to a sofa, and, kneeling beside 
her, pressed his lips to brow and 
cheek and hands, as he continued 
passionately to pronounce her name. 
But as she gave no indication of 
speedy revival, he was compelled to 
call assistance, and a scene of alarm 
and confusion ensued. With the 
coming of excited servants, however, 
Kate began to furnish proofs of res- 
toration. Opening her eyes at last, 
and seeing Clinton beside her, she 
stretched forth her hand trustingly 
to him, and, with a faint smile, mur- 
mured the one word,“ thanks !” Then 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


101 


closing her eyes once more, and 
breathing heavily, she lay as if in a 
state of complete exhaustion. 

It was, of course, no time for ex- 
planation, and Clinton was forced to 
leave with what he regarded as a se- 
rious misapprehension uncorrected. 

For several days Kate was too ill 
to see him ; but, as he called regu- 
larly to inquire after her health, she 
as regularly sent him tender mes- 
sages, in all of which was conveyed 
the expression of her warmest grati- 
tude for the great happiness he had 
conferred upon her. 

During all this time Clinton was 
the most miserable being in the 
world. He found himself in a most 
trying dilemma. The measure he 
was asked to assist in advancing was 
utterly opposed to all his previous 
opinions; and besides, when he would 
set himself down to seriously consi- 
der the situation, the warning words 
against submission to Tammany, 
which Tom Sponge had pronounced, 
would provokingly intrude them- 
selves upon his mind, and, with all 
his contempt for their author, he 
could not drive them out. But how, 
if he adhered to his previous resolu- 
tion, was he to set himself right 
with Kate ? How was he to undo 
the mischief he conceived himself to 
have already done? That Kate loved 
him devotedly he had no doubt, esti- 
mating her attachment by what he 
believed to be the strength of his 
own ; and after what had transpired 
he feared the shock to her system, 
should he retract what he had unin- 
tentionally promised. Could he do 
so honorably, or with any just hope 
of retaining either her or his own 


respect? The case, consequently, had 
two sides to it, and he began anx- 
iously to balance the arguments pro 
and con, and so committed a fatal 
blunder. He was in no position to 
render an impartial decision. His 
inclination was a disturbing element 
whose force he could not properly 
calculate. His conscience was still 
as true as the needle to the pole, but 
the loadstone of his heart was a 
power he could not control nor pro- 
perly measure. His habit of thought 
as, an advocate, likewise, impercepti- 
bly influenced his judgment. It led 
him to magnify one side of the case 
at the expense of the other. An 
attorney finds little difficulty in be- 
coming enthusiastic on either side of 
a cause. He learns to see reasons 
alone in the interest of his retainer. 
Clinton was naturally clear-headed, 
and strove to be impartial ; but 
when he took up the scheme which 
had before appeared so repugnant, 
and studied its favorable side with a 
lawyer’s eye, he was at first sur- 
prised and afterwards delighted to 
discover how much might be said in 
its behalf. Gradually and unwit- 
tingly he became its advocate to his 
own mind. He did not surrender 
without a struggle ; but one after 
another he found the objections that 
had stood in his way removed, and 
he was even enabled to suggest points 
of amendment calculated to make 
the measure more effective than at 
first proposed. Barton Seacrist, to 
whom Clinton’s change of views was 
duly communicated, was delighted, 
and most heartily complimented Kate 
on her powers of persuasion and the 
cleverness of her convert. Then, 


102 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


and not till then, was Kate suffi- 
ciently restored to health to again 
see her lover. 

Only one other interview remains 
to be at present described. 

No sooner had Clinton left the 
house on the occasion of Kate’s sud- 
den illness, than the recovery of that 
young lady was astonishingly rapid. 
She peremptorily ordered all the ser- 
vants present to leave the room, and 
directed that her waiting-maid, Ma- 
demoiselle Cathron, should at once 
be sent to her apartment. When 
that important domestic made her 
appearance, her mistress was stand- 
ing before a mirror, calmly studying 
her reflected figure. 

“That wash of yours has made 
me look a perfect ghost,” she quietly 
remarked, without turning away from 
the glass. 

“Would Mees have some of the 
vmaigre de rouge to restore her 
color ?” 

“Oh, no! I am to remain indis- 
posed for some time ; but you may 
get me in order to play sick.” 


CHAPTER IY 

THE PEOPLE’S ANTI-TAMMANY AND UNI- 
VERSAL REFORM PARTY. 

In every free country — that is, 
where the people rule their so-called 
masters, whether endowed with the 
constitutional function of creating 
them or not — while there may be 
many factions, there can be but two 
political parties. These may be 
known by any names, and in point 


of fact their nomenclature is likely 
to be affected by every important 
revolution in civil policy ; but their 
true and constant classification is 
into Progressionists and Conserva- 
tives. By these titles we shall desig- 
nate them. 

With the peculiarities of the par- 
ties referred to we have nothing now 
to do, as not being in the line of our 
story, except as they serve to explain 
the position held by Tammany at 
the date of the period with which 
we are dealing. That Society, which 
dates back to the origin of the Gov- 
ernment, started with the advance 
wave of the Progressionist flood-tide. 
It was then, both in motive and 
principle, thoroughly radical. Its 
predominant idea was the extension 
of popular government. Its divinity, 
typified by the free man of the 
forest, was the demi-god of Demo- 
cracy. Being then poor, so far as 
the worldly condition of its mem- 
bers went, it was like a ship with 
ample canvas and but little freight- 
age. To keep even with the fore- 
most required on its part no effort 
whatever. But with the in-coming 
of political patronage and power, 
its specific gravity was so increased 
that, gradually losing in the race of 
popular ideas, and in time being en- 
tirely outstriped by the Progression- 
ist flood, it settled and became sta- 
tionary in the midst of a Conserv- 
ative sediment — the inevitable effect 
of an over-load of emolument and 
power. There, a still staunch, but 
grounded, hulk, around which ed- 
died the drifting currents of that 
political element which knows and 
seeks no real progress, it became, in 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


103 


very much the same way that bat- 
tered wrecks become the nuclei of 
broad and populous islands, to be 
the centre of a mass of accumulating 
debris — a great city’s, as well as a 
great party’s, accretion of waste and 
spoil — each deposit of winch fixed it 
more and more immovably in its 
place. Instead of marking with its 
own progress the advance of liberal 
political beliefs, it was at last a break- 
water upon which the current struck 
only to be shattered and turned back. 
No longer the champion of the 
many against the encroachments of 
the few — for no form of government 
can wholly preclude that species of 
tyranny — it became the embodiment 
of the most un-Democratic central- 
ization of power. A more cruel 
mockery of both individual and cor- 
porate freedom, under names and 
forms that had once been faithfully 
significant, and which were still spe- 
cious, was not to be found. 

At the period of time which the 
progress of our story has reached, 
Tammany had become a mere per- 
sonal power. All of its own author- 
ity, and the control w r hich under its 
direction w T as exercised over the 
affairs of the great city of New 
York, were lodged in the hands of a 
few men, the Society’s sachems or 
foremost officials, of whom Barton 
Seacrist, as we have seen, was the 
real leader. The inspiration of all 
its movements, and through it of the 
most elaborate municipal machinery, 
came from one mind— or rather, 
from two minds acting in accord ; 
for the reader knows what the public 
was ignorant of — of Kate Seacrist’s 
agency in the schemes of which her 


father was supposed to be sole ori- 
ginator. The power of Barton Sea- 
crist, within the circle to which Tam- 
many’s operations extended, was 
almost supreme. Tie made and un- 
made, raised up and cast down, and 
there was no one among all those 
who sought to share in the emolu- 
ments of the municipality which his 
cunning directed, but professed to do 
him profoundest reverence. The 
reader has already seen, in the ac- 
count of the dinner party gathering 
of his satellites given in the preceding 
Book, how profuse and servile was 
their adulation. And yet Barton 
Seacrist was not satisfied. There 
were certain points of authority for 
which his ambition thirsted, that 
were still beyond his grasp. If these 
were attained, he believed that he 
would be content ; but until then 
his mind could not be at rest. With 
Kate’s assistance he had contrived a 
measure which, if carried into opera- 
tion, would realize ail that his utmost 
aspiration meditated. It was so 
constructed that, under the pretenc i 
of meeting certain universally ac- 
knowledged wants, what little power 
remained in the hands of the public 
was to be ingeniously extracted "to 
be given over to the Tammany Sa- 
chem and his immediate followers. 
As already shown, Clinton Maint- 
land had been selected as the instru- 
ment to be used in carrying the 
scheme through the stages prelimin- 
ary to its final execution. 

But while Barton Seacrist and 
his daughter were busy with the 
steps antecedent to the inauguration 
of their plans, and particularly in 
overcoming the scruples of Clinton 


104 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


Maintland as their principal agent in 
the work, they were menaced with a 
danger of whose existence they were 
totally unconscious. Whispers of 
their design, with a correct interpre- 
tation of its meaning, had got abroad, 
and certain public-spirited citizens 
had taken alarm. But, as they were 
chiefly Progressionists, who were in 
a hopeless minority, besides being 
constitutionally averse to energetic 
political action, their dissatisfaction 
would have amounted to little, had 
it not been reinforced by discontent 
among the Conservatives. There the 
trouble was more serious. Some 
had grown jealous of Seacrist’s over- 
reaching authority ; some who had 
received favors at his hands were 
disappointed because they were not 
greater ; some were out of humor 
because others had been equally suc- 
cored with themselves, and some — 
and by far the greater number — 
were ready to go into temporary op- 
position in the hope of being bought 
back with enlarged emoluments. Al- 
together, there was a considerable 
element ripe for revolt. 

At last there was a meeting of 
conspirators. Four men who had 
previously addressed each other in 
whispers upon the street, assembled 
in solemn conclave. They met in a 
back room, behind a door that was 
carefully closed and locked, and spoke 
in voices that were low and almost 
tremulous. One was Scourge, of the 
Sunday Plague, who had taken mor- 
tal offence because he had received 
no more patronage than the Daily 
Rocket. Another was Senator Bloom, 
who, although holding one of the 
most lucrative positions in the city, | 


had asked for one still more lucra- 
tive, but which Seacrist had already 
promised to another supporter. The 
others were Browbeat and Striker, 
two active and useful, but not pro- 
minent Conservative leaders, who, * 
having sought the same job from the 
great Tammany Sachem, and find- 
ing it given to a third party of 
greater political influence, had poured 
their mutual griefs into each other’s 
ears. 

At first the four men were exceed- 
ingly guarded in their expressions, 
each being suspicious of the others. 
But, after all had told the story of 
their wrongs, their courage and their 
confidence alike increased. A care- 
ful study of the political situation 
was entered upon, and the effect was 
almost magical. It was conclusively 
shown that all the Progressionists 
and all the Conservatives — except 
such as were “ owned ” by Tammany 
— added to such voters as the four 
conspirators could control, made up 
a clear majority of the entire voting 
population. It was then and there, 
accordingly, resolved that Tammany 
should be overthrown. Arranging, 
in the meanwhile, to see the leaders 
of the different parties and factions, 
which it was thought might be com- 
bined against the common enemy, 
they then adjourned to a future day. 

On the following Lord’s Day, the 
few hundred readers of the Sunday 
Plague, which had always before been 
little else than a chronicle of the vir- 
tues of Tammany and Seacrist, were 
astonished to find both of them 
attacked in the columns of that 
journal in language which furnished 
indubitable proof of Scourge’s work- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


105 


man ship. The one was declared to 
be a “ den of thieves,” and the other 
was assailed as “ a despot and a rob- 
ber,” while both were threatened 
with some dreadful, but not very 
intelligible, disaster. 

On Monday the four politicians 
again met. There was some disap- 
pointment because neither Abel 
Cummager, of the Mohicans, nor 
any of the other prominent political 
leaders who had been invited, put in 
an appearance. But their absence 
was ,in good measure compensated 
for by the presence of one who had 
several years before represented the 
Progressionists in. a very exciting 
canvass, as an unsuccessful candi- 
date for a leading office, and who 
did not hesitate to pledge their en- 
tire strength to the proposed move- 
ment. So energetic were his denun- 
ciations of Tammany, and so em- 
phatic his assurances of support from 
the great party he professed to rep- 
resent, that the utmost enthusiasm 
was excited by his words — a fact at 
which the reader will not be greatly 
surprised when he learns that the 
important personage was our old ac- 
quaintance, Tom Sponge. How he 
came to be present at this time and 
place, it is not necessary here to 
inquire. It is enough to know that 
he was there, and in an outfit which 
had rarely been surpassed in mag- 
nificence. 

The five men thus assembled de- 
cided to organize a party and select 
a ticket with a view to the election 
then not far off — their sole purpose 
being the overthrow of Tammany as 
led by Barton Seacrist. The first 
important step, and one which for a 


time threatened to be ruinous to the 
entire project, was the selection of 
a suitable name for their organiza- 
tion. 

Scourge, who desired that there 
should be no misunderstanding as 
to their purpose, proposed “ Anti- 
Tammany.” 

Senator Bloom, who thought the 
corruption of which their adversaries 
were known to be guilty, should be 
the chief point of attack, suggested 
“ Reform.” 

Browbeat believed a more com- 
prehensive title should be secured, 
and declared himself in favor of 
“ The People’s.” 

Striker, more enthusiastic than 
any of them, foreseeing how the new 
party was to swallow up all the 
others, wanted it called “The Uni- 
versal.” 

For a time the disagreement on 
this important point seemed irrecon- 
cilable, each man stubbornly adher- 
ing to his own selection, and scout- 
ing all the others ; when Sponge, 
just as the meeting seemed on the 
point of angry dissolution, came to 
the rescue of the movement by sug- 
gesting a course that reconciled all 
differences. He discovered great 
merit in each of the names proposed 
— so great, indeed, that he thought 
none of them should be lost. His 
proposition was that all should be 
combined. So reasonable, and at 
the same time so flattering, was the 
suggestion, that it was at once ac- 
ceded to, and the name of “The 
People’s Anti-Tammany and Univer- 
sal Reform Party” was adopted 
with great applause. 

The next point was the selectior 


106 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJOIUTY. 


of suitable candidates for the various 
offices to be filled, to offer to the 
people for their support. This work 
progressed very satisfactorily, until 
it came to the choice of a leade) on 
the legislative ticket. The import- 
ance of the selection for this place 
was manifest from the knowledge 
which had been obtained of Barton 
Seacrist’s plans, and the necessity of 
finding some one who, as a law- 
maker, would be fully competent to 
penetrate and frustrate them. Sev- 
eral distinguished individuals were 
mentioned in that connection ; but 
Tom Sponge presented the claims of 
one so strongly and enthusiastically 
that ail others w 7 ere at once yielded 
in his favor. Tom’s man was Clinton 
Maintland. 

The work for the* time being con- 
cluded witt the appointment of a 
committee, of which Scourge, on 
account of his literary standing, was 
made the chairman, to prepare an 
address to the people, setting forth 
the danger to the public from Tam- 
many’s threatened encroachments, 
and calling a convention at one of 
the largest halls in the city, at a 
time fixed upon, to which all sympa- 
thizing with the movement should be 
invited without regard to former 
party lines, and at which it was pro- 
posed that the programme already 
resolved upon, should be proposed 
and adopted as if the spontaneous 
action of the assembled multitude ; 
the wise precaution being employed 
of having the candidates to be nomi- 
nated seen and their concurrence 
secured in advance. This much ac- 
complished, the five conspirators 
who, altogether, had not the influ- 


ence, the wealth, or position of a 
single first class citizen, heartily con- 
gratulated each other upon their 
success, and separated in the con- 
fident belief that they had inaugu- 
rated a movement which was des- 
tined, not only to sweep one of the 
oldest and strongest political institu- 
tions out of existence, but to lift 
themselves to the pinnacle of power 
and renown. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE PHOTOGRAPH. 

Because Clinton Maintland had 
fully committed himself to Barton 
Seacrist’s measure, and had learned 
to present its claims in their strong- 
est possible bearings both to himself 
and to others, it did not follow that 
he was at all times wholly reconciled 
to its support. He had been edu- 
cated in the firm belief of the peo- 
ple’s right of self-government, and 
the only ambition he had ever in- 
dulged for a share in public affairs, 
was the dream — occasionally ad- 
mitted — of sometime becoming its 
champion. To pledge himself to a 
scheme that was to abridge instead 
of to enlarge the popular prerogative, 
was in truth to turn from a rooted 
faith ; and with all the special plead- 
ing his utmost ingenuity could sug- 
gest, he could not at times see it in 
any other light. He tried to recon- 
cile his judgment to his interests, his 
conscience to his inclination ; and to 
a considerable extent the effort was 
successful ; but there were periods 
of misgiving and compunction when 
he was greatly moved to unsay all he 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


107 


had promised, and return with re- 
newed ardor to the principle of his 
first adoption, at every sacrifice. 

For these qualms of political con- 
science, the young partisan found, 
when the power of self-persuasion 
failed him, but one efficient sedative, 
and to that he was accustomed to 
turn with the same impulsion that 
leads the inebriate to his cups. In 
his passion for Kate Seacrist, he 
found not merely compensation for 
the mental pangs and twitches to 
which he was exposed, but forgetful- 
ness of their cause. The intoxica- 
tion that flowed from the indulgence 
of her society — for her conversation 
had all the sparkle and the juicy 
ripeness of purest wine — and from 
the meditation of her imputed vir- 
tues in her bodily absence, was quite 
sufficient to reconcile him to his fate. 
He was, or supposed he was, des- 
perately in love. 

Nevertheless, he was not forgetful 
of his other and earlier mistress, his 
profession. His fame as a rising 
barrister continually increased, and 
cases of importance crowded upon 
his hands. It thus happened that 
the incident now about to be de- 
scribed was encountered. 

Clinton had been retained to de- 
fend a man charged with the highest 
crime known to the law. The proof 
was very strong, and the case, to all 
appearances, desperate j but the ad- 
vocate, entering upon his work with 
all the energy and resolution which 
his professional duty was supposed 
to call for, performed his part so 
well and successfully that his client, 
although convicted, was sentenced to 
a brief term of imprisonment only. 


No one was better satisfied with the 
result than the convict himself, who, 
when the judgment of the court was 
pronounced, candidly admitted to 
his counsel that he was guilty of the 
highest grade of offence. Neverthe- 
less, there was something about the 
man that deeply interested Clinton 
in his behalf — what, he could not 
tell, for he was manifestly a hardened 
wretch — but something so enticing, 
that he resolved to visit him in pri- 
son and obtain from him, if possi- 
ble, the story of his life. 

The name of the man, as he frank- 
ly informed Clinton, who seemed to 
have fully secured his confidence, 
notwithstanding he had been known 
by a dozen aliases, was Robert Ha- 
zen. He had been but a compara- 
tively short time the outlaw he then 
appeared. Manhood had found him 
successfully entering upon an hum- 
ble, but honest calling in the city of 
New York. Although his fortune 
was moderate, his future could scarce- 
ly have promised surer happiness. 
He was contented with his lot, and 
was about to be married to the wo- 
man of his heart — but, at this point 
of his narrative the speaker’s eyes 
suddenly flashed with vicious light, 
and his voice grew husky in his 
throat. • “ Here, sir,” he went on 
with a struggle, “ begins my fall. I 
loved that girl with all the power my 
soul was capable of. I may have 
been blind, but I thought there was 
nobody so good, so true, and I put 
my whole fife under her feet. There 
was no reserve on my part— no chance 
for retreat. Oh, sir, but I did wor- 
ship her! I was not to blame, be- 
cause I could not help myself. .Well, 


108 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


sir, as I was saying, we were to be 
married ; the time was fixed ; my 
friends had all congratulated me, 
and I had hunted out, oh, the sweet- 
est little nest of a house! — a trifle 
above my means ; but then there 
was nothing, I said to myself, too 
good for her. 

“I ought to have told you, sir — 
but I forgot — that her father was a 
poor man. He had been unlucky in 
his undertakings, and was quite down. 
People did not speak very well of 
him — said he was a changeable, vis- 
ionary man, and would never be of 
any account. But I cared nothing 
for that. I was rather glad of it, as 
I thought it would be a satisfaction 
to help him along. 

“Well, sir, as I was saying, the 
day was fixed — and wasn’t very far 
off either ; and I was so happy, I 
scarcely cared for anything, when I 
heard a whisper — I had heard the 
same kind of talk before, and it had 
never amounted to anything — that 
my father-in-law-to-be was some way 
in luck — was to have some office, 
and would go up in the world. ” 

“ I thought nothing at all about it 
— there was only one thing I could 
think about — until the next time I 
went to the house, when I detected 
a slight reserve — a sort of hesitancy 
I couldn’t exactly understand, but 
which somehow chilled me in spite 
of myself. Well, sir, the trouble 
grew as the fortunes of the family 
improved. The father got his office, 
and they moved to a better house on 
a gayer street, and the daughter had 
less and less time to give to her 
lover’s society. The time for the 
wedding came and went — for it was 


put off on some pretext — and still I 
never distrusted. Oh, sir, I was 
b lin d — love-blind. But why prolong 
the story ? I was finally discarded 
• — told — not by her, but by the father 
— that my visits were no longer de- 
sired, and that, if I wanted a wife, I 
must seek one elsewhere.” 

“ I was deranged — confounded. I 
did not know what I did. I had 
always been a sober man ; but I 
went and drank and drank until I 
was worse than crazy, and in my 
delirium I came very near commit- 
ting a dreadful crime — one that 
would have sent me to the gallows. 
But I escaped then ; and, when my 
reason came back, I sought that 
woman and told her everything. I 
made her see and hear me, although 
they tried to keep me out of the 
house. I told her that I was a lost 
man if things went on as they were 
—that I was going down, body and 
soul, and that she alone had power 
to save me — that the responsibility 
would be solely hers. I appealed 
to her in the name of that love 
she had over and over professed for 
me. 

“ She told me that her heart had 
undergone no change, but that her 
position had ; that she would still 
gladly marry me, if circumstances 
would permit ; and of those circum- 
stances her father was to be the 
judge. I saw her father, told him 
everything, and appealed to him in 
behalf of the happiness of both my- 
self and his daughter. He heard 
me patiently, pretended to pity me, 
and offered me money as compensa- 
tion for my wrongs. I cursed him 
to his face. I tried to see the daugh- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


109 


ter once more, 'but I was refused 
admission to the house. I met her 
upon the street — I waited and 
watched until she went out — but 
when I spoke to her, she turned her 
head aside and passed on. Now, sir, 
what would you have done under 
such circumstances ?” 

“ Torn the image of that perfidi- 
ous creature from my heart, and 
lived to scorn my love as I would 
scorn her who had inspired it 1” was 
Clinton’s passionate reply ; but his 
voice, nevertheless, trembled just a 
little towards the close ; for the 
thought of Kate Seacrist, and of his 
love, entered his mind, and he could 
not help asking himself what he 
should do were he to be made the 
victim of such infidelity. 

“Oh, sir, but you did not know 
my girl !” urged the poor, sentenced 
wretch in response. “ You could 
never have done that if you had 
loved her. She was no ordinary 
person ; she had such eyes — such a 
voice — such a way with her, there 
was no resisting her power. She 
was not beautiful, but there was 
something about her that no other 
woman I ever met seemed to pos- 
sess. I have her photograph here — 
here in my bosom, where I have kept 
it ever since she promised to be 
mine. I want you to look at it, and 
then say if you can wonder at my 
folly.” And with that the man took 
out a small photograph case, plain 
and much worn, and, opening it, held 
it up before his auditor’s eyes. 

Clinton started back as if a mine 
had exploded beneath him. His 
eyes fairly glared as they gazed 
upon the face of Kate Seacrist. 


There was no mistaking that like- 
ness. Every feature was presented 
— her very smile was there. 

His consternation, however, was 
but momentary. He recovered him- 
self almost on the instant. The 
thought that some trick was being 
practiced came to his help, and with 
it a feeling of intense indignation. 

“It’s false — false, sir!” he ex- 
claimed, without considering whom 
he was addressing. “Your whole 
story is a lie. You never knew Kate 

that woman. Kepeat that libel 

again and I’ll drive the falsehood 
down your throat.” 

“It’s a lie, is it?” said the man, 
with taunting coolness. “ You don’t 
believe that I ever loved Kate Sea- 
crist — you see I know the name in 
full — and that she ever loved me. 
I’m only a poor jail-bird, I know, 
and my word doesn’t go very far ; 
but I’ve got other evidence — I’ve got 
other evidence.” And with those 
words Hazen began to fumble about 
his clothes, and finally succeeded in 
displaying a small package of papers 
which, it was easy to see, consisted 
of old letters. 

“Pass your eye over them,” he 
added in the same deliberate tone, 
holding out the parcel to Clinton, 
“ and see whether it’s a lie or not.” 

There was no mistake about it. 
Clinton recognized the handwriting 
at a glance. Not only that, but, as 
he read line after line, he found 
many of the very same loving ex- 
pressions Kate had over and over 
addressed to him, and which he 
had treasured away in his heart 
as the sweetest souvenirs of his 
courtship, here first addressed to an- 


110 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


other — and that other the poor, con- 
victed and blood-stained felon be- 
fore him. 

With a groan Clinton tossed the 
papers back to their owner and hid 
his face in his hands, while the great 
stone building in which they were, 
seemed to be whirling round and 
round. 

“ Oh, I see how it is ?” said Hazen, 
with a touch of tenderness in his 
voice. “ You have met Kate Seacrist, 
and are a victim too. I don't wonder 
at it — I don’t wonder at it. She’s a 
witch. There’s no reason why you 
should not be ensnared as well as 
I. But, oh, sir, if 3 T ou’re not too 
far gone already, save yourself in 
time. Act on your own words. 
Tear the image of the perfidious 
creature from your breast. One 
ruin ’s enough for her to make. As 
for me, it’s too late. I’m lost. But 
as for you, you’re firm yet, and a 
great deal stronger than I ever -was. 
Oh, I hope you’ll escape ; but I do 
pity you — on my soul, I pity you !” 

These words restored Clinton. 
The pity of the poor wretch he had 
saved from the gallows cut him. 
Pride came to the rescue. Compos- 
ing himself as best he could, he 
bade the man goodbye, and went out 
from the prison’s walls, but with a 
heart heavier than any man’s within 
them. 

Rapidly he walked away — where, 
he neither knew nor cared. His 
brain was in a whirl. He could 
think of nothing connectedly — ra- 
tionally. Suddenly, however, he was 
brought back to a realizing sense of 
his surroundings by an incident of a 
somewhat startling character. 


He was hurrying along a narrow 
street as a wagon in charge of a 
drunken or reckless driver came 
dashing by. An old woman, quite 
feeble and humbly clad, just then 
was tottering across the way, and 
the wheel, striking her a fearful 
blow, dashed her almost at Clinton’s 
feet, while the heartless whip, turn- 
ing and seeing what he had done, 
lashed his horse and was soon out of 
sight. 

A noisy crowed speedily gathered 
round, but Clinton’s whole attention 
was directed to the injured woman, 
whom he *had taken in his arms and 
carried from the roadway, and who 
w T as profusely bleeding from a fearful 
wound in the face. He did not no- 
tice that a stylish carriage had 
stopped near by, and a fashionably- 
dressed lady, discovering the cause 
of the commotion, had descended, 
and was engaged in staunching the 
blood with her lace-bordered hand- 
kerchief. 

“Will not some one get a con- 
veyance to take the woman to the 
hospital? — the case is urgent,” in- 
quired Clinton, speaking to the 
crowd, but without looking up. 

“ My carriage is at hand,” replied 
the lady, in an exceedingly pleasant 
voice, but not lifting her eyes from 
her work. “ It can proceed there at 
once.” 

Clinton’s response was to lift the 
unfortunate woman in his arms, and 
carefully lay her upon one of the 
carriage’s easy seats. Then, turning 
to the mistress of the equipage, he 
assisted her to enter, but without 
seeing her face, w T hich was momenta- 
rily hidden by some drapery about 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


Ill 


her hat. Having spoken a word of 
direction to the driver, he, however, 
turned to bow at parting, raised his 
hat, and met the eyes of Margaret 
Kortriglit. Both started at the un- 
expected recognition, but neither 
spoke. Clinton bent profoundly ; 
Margaret gave him a glance which 
was certainly not of displeasure, and 
the carriage rolled away. 

The incident just described com- 
pletely sobered Clinton. So effec- 
tually did it restore his reflective 
faculties that by the time he had 
reached his office, to which he slowly 
bent his steps, his mind had gone 
over the whole field. He now saw 
the scheme to which he had suffered 
himself to become committed in the 
interest of Barton Seacrist, in all 
the enormity with which his un- 
biased judgment and education had 
prepared him to view it ; and the 
woman he had expected to make his 
wife appeared to his newly-opened 
eyes as simply a fascinating, but 
heartless decoy, that had come near 
leading him to a fatal abandonment 
of long cherished principles. He 
could not at once erase her image 
from his heart, but the face of Mar- 
garet Kortriglit — that face -that he 
had just looked upon, and which 
came so unexpectedly, and, as it 
almost seemed to him, providentially 
into the picture he was meditating, 
promised to make the operation much 
less painful than he had supposed 
could be possible. He was almost 
persuaded that he had never really 
loved Kate — that he had simply been 
bewitched by a cunning enchantress. 
That the charm was broken — so fa- 
tally broken that it could never 


more be renewed — he felt assured ; 
and he was prepared to rejoice in his 
deliverance, although stunned and 
staggered by the blow which had 
brought it. 

While the first impression of his 
newly-acquired freedom was strong 
upon him, Clinton resolved to com- 
plete the work by emancipation. He 
accordingly indited two notes, one 
to Barton Seacrist, the other to 
Kate. Both were brief, entering into 
no lengthy explanation of the cause, 
but indicating such a radical change 
in his sentiments as involved the se- 
vering of all existing ties and obli- 
gations. Without pause or delay he 
took ‘steps to have them forwarded 
to their destination. That done, he 
sat buried in meditation, feeling 
much as the shipwrecked man must 
do as he sits sore and weary upon 
the solid shore — safe at last — and 
looks back upon the raging sea from 
which he has just escaped. 

But his reflections were speedily 
brought to an end. The door opened 
and in walked, ushered by Tom 
Sponge with much ceremony, the 
committee appointed by the meeting 
that had organized the People’s An- 
ti-Tammany and Universal Beform 
Party, to confer with the gentlemen 
selected to be its candidates at the 
next election. With great force and 
precision the chairman, who was 
Scourge, of the Sunday Plague, hav- 
ing thrown himself into an oratori- 
cal attitude, proceeded to state what 
he denominated the case of the peo- 
ple against their oppressors, laying 
particular stress upon the very mea- 
sure which Clinton had been select- 
ed, and had consented, to carry 


112 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


through, as a meditated outrage upon 
popular rights, of so gross a charac- 
ter as imperatively to call upon all 
good men at once to combine against 
Tammany as their common enemy. 
Clinton’s consent, not only to join 
them in their patriotic movement, of 
the success of which the speaker de- 
clared there could be no doubt, but 
to serve as a candidate, was solicited. 
“ In this great work, sir,” said Scourge 
with much impressiveness, in con- 
clusion, “you have been chosen by 
the voice of your fellow-citizens for a 
position of distinguished honor and 
responsibility. Will you accept the 
trust?” 

Clinton did not stop to inquire 
upon whose authority he had been 
chosen, or how respectable or formi- 
. dable was the movement to which he 
had been invited to commit himself. 

“I will,” was his immediate and 
decisive reply. 

When Tom Sponge with equal 
ceremoniousness had bowed the com- 
mittee out of the room, he turned 
with a countenance radiant with sa- 
tisfaction and said to Clinton : 

“ What do you think of my case 
against Tammany now ?” 


CHAPTEK VI. 

TEST AND COUNTEB-TEST. 

Clinton Maintland made one mis- 
take. He was in error when he sup- 
posed that Kate Seacrist did not 
love him. She had given him her 
heart with a devotion as intense as 
she was capable of, and her nature 
was strong and earnest. True, her 


affection was not purely unalloyed — 
not strictly disinterested ; for other 
forces were actively at work in her 
bosom. Nevertheless she was a 
woman, with a woman’s soul, which 
an intellect strong and far-reaching, 
and a life full of busy ambition, had 
disciplined rather than subdued. 
Her heart had not lost its elasticity 
because her brain had become the 
theatre of stirring energies. One 
sex is not necessarily double-sided 
more than the other. Kate was 
capable of pursuing two cherished 
objects at the same time. She was 
fond of the excitement and intrigue 
to which her daily associations intro- 
duced her ; but, for that reason, 
none the less longed for communion 
with a pure and manly spirit such as 
she believed Clinton’s to be — nay, 
the desire for such companionship, 
as a change, as a relief, grew as 
thirst is increased by the absence of 
that which allays it. 

She was not one to give up & pur- 
pose on which her soul was set with- 
out a struggle exhausting every re- 
source of woman’s ingenuity. Clin- 
ton erred when he congratulated him- 
self in the belief that the battle was 
over, either with his own heart, or 
with Kate Seacrist. The sharpest 
trial was yet to be. 

Knowing nothing of the meeting 
between her suitors, past and pre- 
sent, Kate, upon receiving Clinton’s 
renunciation of the engagement, 
very naturally adopted an explana- 
tion far from the correct one. She 
perfectly knew that he was in prin- 
ciple averse to some of her father’s 
schemes, and presumed that his con- 
science had simply revolted against 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


113 


the political committal he had made, 
carrying his heart temporarily with 
it. She resolved to win back his 
allegiance to herself, and, if possible, 
to her father’s interest. 

Clinton was busy with some pro- 
fessional employment in his office 
when a female closely veiled — as fe- 
males visiting lawyer’s offices usually 
are — entered. If observed by him 
at all, the circumstance excited no 
interest ; but Tom Sponge at once 
arose, and, after seeing the lady 
seated with much ceremony, desired 
to know her pleasure. She desired 
to confer with Mr. Maintland — and 
alone. Quite crest-fallen, Tom shrank 
back, and Clinton, arising, courteous- 
ly requested the visitor to walk into 
his private office. There, having 
handed her a chair, with an uncon- 
cern amounting almost to indiffer- 
ence — she was doubtless some client 
in need of his professional assist- 
ance — he seated himself before her 
to await her communication. A mo- 
ment passed without anything being 
said, when, raising her hand and 
suddenly sweeping her veil aside, 
Kate Seacrist looked in his face. 

It is hardly necessary to say that 
Clinton was surprised — even startled; 
but he could not help noticing how 
pale his companion was. Mademoi- 
selle Cathron had not done her work 
in vain. 

Neither immediately spoke. At 
last Kate, seeing that she would 
have to take the initiative — for Clin- 
ton, the first shock over, sat calm, 
and even stern — began : 

“ Clinton — I mean Mr. Maintland 
— you have done me injustice.” 

The speaker understood the per- 


son she was dealing with well enough 
to be aware that, if she succeeded in 
convincing him that he had done her 
any wrong, even in thought, she had 
gained the shortest avenue to his 
sympathies, and to a considerable 
extent disarmed him in advance of 
opposition to her contemplated 
attack. Her voice trembled just a 
little as she pronounced the word 
“ injustice.” 

The only answer was a look of in- 
quiry. 

“ Injustice,” she went on, after 
noting the effect of her opening, “ in 
misjudging my motives towards 
yourself.” 

“ But, Miss Seacrist ” 

“ Injustice,” she repeated, without 
seeming to notice his interruption, 
“ in supposing that I was led by un- 
worthy ” 

“ Oh, no, Miss Seacrist, not ” 

“ Unworthy motives,” she resolute- 
ly persisted, “in consenting to be- 
come your wife. You suppose — say ” 
— here her eyes rested for a moment 
on a piece of paper she held nervous- 
ly in her hand, and which closely 
resembled the note Clinton had last 
written her — “ that our engagement 
involved your support of certain 
measures — projects — I know not 
what you call them — of my father’s. 
Oh, Clinton, how could you be so 
cruel — so — so — so ” 

Here the speaker’s voice complete- 
ly failed her, and her eyes, full of 
tears, looked appealingly into her 
companion’s. 

“But, Miss Seacrist, was it not 
so ?” 

Clinton’s words were strangely 
firm for such a crisis. 


114 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ Never! — on my part, never!” she 
answered quickly. “ I will not — can- 
not — speak for my father. He is a 
politician — ambitious — calculating — 
as all politicians are. But, Clinton 
Maintland, speaking for myself, I 
again say — never !” 

Here there was a pause, but no 
response. 

“To prove to you how sincere I 
am, and how great is the wrong you 
have done me — are doing me,” Kate 
continued, “I say to you here and 
now — I know you will despise me 
for the confession, but I can’t help it 
— that I would — not will, for that is 
past — become your wife with no 
reference to my father’s views.” 

The point was reached where the 
speaker clearly had calculated upon 
a crowning effect — something that 
would be decisive of the struggle. 
She had now put forth her master 
stroke. The result was very far from 
what she had expected. Clinton sat 
coolly tearing into little bits a piece 
of paper in his hand. A frown — it 
was but for a moment — swept over 
her countenance as she noted how 
totally unmoved he was, and then 
with a look of distress that could 
not have been feigned, Kate broke 
into words of protestation that mani- 
festly came from the heart. 

“Oh, Clinton, you surely, surely 
never loved me ! You deceived me 
when you said you did. You could 
not have changed so quickly — so 
entirely. I have not changed — I 
cannot change; for, Clinton, with 
my whole soul I have loved you — I 
do love you !” 

“ So you told Robert Hazen.” 

The shaft was terribly effective. 


Kate, who had been leaiypg earnest- 
ly forward, fell back in her chair as 
if she had been struck a stunning 
blow. Her breathing almost stopped, 
and, apparently, without considering 
what she was saying, she asked : 

“Do you — do you know Robert 
Hazen ?” 

“ Yes, Miss Seacrist, I know Robert 
Hazen. ” 

Clinton spoke in a firm, measured 
tone. 

“ He is now a prisoner in the 
Tombs — the tenant of a convict’s 
cell — a condemned, ruined man — 
and all because of his love for you — 
or rather, because of your professed 
love for him. He has told me all — 
his whole sad story. He has shown 
me your photograph — your letters to 
him, in which you protest an affec- 
tion as constant as you have this 
minute avowed for me. He has 
been sacrificed, utterly sacrificed by 
your heartlessness — and yet that 
man, condemned by the law of the 
land — lost to all hope — has a soul 
that loves you still — even as you sit 
here asserting attachment to me. ” 

Mademoiselle Cathron’s prepara- 
tions were no longer needed to give 
pallor to Kate’s features as she sat 
listening to that terrible arraignment. 
At last she bent forward and covered 
her face with her hands. Her pros- 
tration seemed complete ; but even 
then her thoughts were not so much 
on Robert Hazen, as on the course 
she should pursue in that fearful 
trial. She did not despair — not even 
then — of final victory. She thought 
she saw in the very depths of her 
humiliation a path to Clinton Maint- 
land’s heart 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


115 


At length, raising her head with an 
apparent effort at composure, she 
looked straight into the eyes of her 
accuser. 

“Clinton Maintland,” she said, “I 
acknowledge my sin. I did love 
Robert Hazen, even as I have loved 
— do love — you. I was false — basely 
false to him and to my own soul. I 
suffered my father’s command to 
prevail against my heart. I was 
young — but a child — but oh, I ought 
to have married Robert Hazen! I 
ought to have defied my father’s will 
— even as I have disregarded it this 
day. I have no defence to make. I 
have sinned and I have been pun- 
ished — oh, how I am punished now ! 
Farewell, Clinton Maintland ! All is 
at an end between us. May — may 
— may God bless you !” 

She had arisen while she w T as yet 
speaking, and started towards the 
door. She took a step or two — then 
stopped as if unable to proceed, tot- 
tered, and would have fallen pros- 
trate, had Clinton Maintland not 
caught her in his arms. 

Clinton had been firm — very firm ; 
but he was not made of iron. He 
had been cold — very cold ; but he 
was not made of ice. Heart and 
brain had both been busy while he 
had been listening to Kate’s confes- 
sion of her guilt — so different from 
the defence he had expected to hear 
from her lips. She was young when 
she had erred, and was nothing to 
be conceded to immaturity ? he asked 
himself. Her father had command- 
ed, and she had yielded against her 
own inclination — was not a daugh- 
ter’s love to be considered? She 
had been weak, but was weakness 


never to be forgiven — in a woman ? 
These were points he felt that he 
could urge with convincing power to 
a jury — was he to remain insensible 
to their force ? Had he not been se- 
vere — harsh — perhaps unjust, as she 
had claimed, to her whom he had 
loved, and — he could no longer deny 
| the fact — whom he loved still ? These 
thoughts flashed through his brain 
like intuitions, and they completely 
changed the current of his sympa- 
thies. A reaction had set in, and he 
had risen to stay her departure, that 
he might ask her forgiveness for his 
suspicions and his cruelty, when she 
had tottered and fallen into his em- 
brace. And then, with that helpless 
fainting girl, who had just given him 
such convincing proof of her devo- 
tion, once more in his arms — upon 
his bosom — her cold, colorless face 
turned unconsciously, but oh, how 
appealingly towards him, is it any 
wonder that the temporary barrier 
erected by his distrust should have 
given way, and the full tide of his 
strong, impetuous passion flowed 
back upon his soul ? Resistlessly he 
pressed her to him, and kiss after 
kiss was lavished upon her passive 
lips. He must ask her forgiveness. 
He must down upon his knees and 
tell her he had sinned against her 
love, and plead his penitence. Nay, 
more; he must make atonement for 
his great transgression by yielding 
her more than she had asked. He 
would surrender his political com- 
punctions. He would support her 
father’s schemes to the utmost of his 
ability — for her sake. The sacrifice, 
he felt, under the circumstances, to 
be none too great to make. He 


116 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


would gladly do even more, were it 
in liis power ; but this much he 
could and would do. All this he 
must tell her there, and without a 
moment’s unnecessary delay. The 
words were upon his lips, and he 
only awaited her return to con- 
sciousness to make his full confes- 
sion. 

His resolution was fully made, and, 
had Kate been in a condition to 
have listened to his avowals, or 
dared to seem to be in that condi- 
tion, an unequivocal committal would 
then and there have been poured 
into her ears. But time was given 
him for further meditation. Not 
that his purpose wavered in the 
least, but his mind had opportunity 
to canvass the ground upon w r hicli 
he had decided, and to proceed one 
step further. Kate had demonstrat- 
ed her love by an act of singular ab- 
negation, in thus coming to him and 
pledging her troth in disregard of 
her ambitious father’s wish and will. 
That was a great deal, and all he 
had a right to ask — more than he 
had a right to expect — but there was 
one other test that might be applied. 
It was unnecessary he felt — wholly 
useless — but th^n it would make 
Love’s victory more complete. He 
would make the trial. 

Kate speedily recovered under 
such attentions as she received at 
the hands of her lover. She had 
been borne to a sofa, and lay with 
her head supported upon Clinton’s 
arm. Languid, and weak, and diz- 
zy she yet seemed to be ; but she 
made an effort — unsuccessful, it is 
true — to rise. 

“ Stop — one minute — Miss Sea- 


crist!” said Clinton with an assumed 
sternness of voice and manner which 
was entirely at war with his feelings. 

Kate silently obeyed. 

“You have told me, Miss Sea- 
crist,” Clinton proceeded in the same 
decided tone, “ that our union need 
not depend, so far as you are con- 
cerned, upon my support of your 
father’s views, w T hich you rightly 
infer to be objectionable to me. Your 
generosity is fully appreciated ; but 
there is one thing more you must 
know. So reprehensible, upon ma- 
ture reflection, did your father’s pur- 
poses appear, that I conceived it to 
be my duty as a citizen to put my- 
self in a position actively to oppose 
them. I have, in fact, accepted a 
candidacy on a platform of express 
opposition to them. My word — my 
pledge has been given. ” 

“Then,” said Kate, suddenly 
springing to her feet, -with hashing 
eyes and the disappearance of every 
sign of weakness, “ my business here 
is ended. Nothing more remains to 
be said. Instead of union between 
us, there is to bo conflict. Whoever 
is my father’s enemy is my enemy. 
There can be no love for me that 
shall be hate of him and his. Clin- 
ton Maintland, I have humbled my- 
self before you — put my heart at 
your feet — almost earned your con- 
tempt; but when we meet again, it will 
be under different — widely different 
circumstances.” 

No longer with uncertain step she 
moved ; but, having hissed out her 
last words in Clinton’s face, and 
leaving him too much astonished to 
reply, or in any way interfere, Kate 
swept from the room. Having 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


317 


reached her home, for once she curt- 
ly refused Mademoiselle Cathron’s 
proffered offices, although that zea- 
lous assistant protested to her mis- 
tress that she positively looked like 
a fright. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE NEW DEPARTURE. 

In the spring, when floods are 
upon the earth, it requires very little 
force to start a torrent that will carry 
desolation in any direction. A child 
may mark out a channel with his 
finger, along which the subtle water 
will follow like a gentle play-fellow ; 
but if it continues to flow on un- 
checked, it becomes a deep and roar- 
ing flood. It is so in the affairs of 
men, and particularly so in populous 
communities in everything relating 
to their political interests. “ Unsta- 
ble as water,” is the judgment which 
ill-disposed critics have ever inclined 
to pronounce upon Democratic peo- 
ples. Unsympathetic and torpid in 
seasons of public stagnation, they 
become scarcely controllable when 
the spring-tide of general agitation 
for any cause has swelled their pas- 
sions to the full. Their emotions 
being the guides usually followed in 
all things appertaining to the popu- 
lar cause, they go out for a time with 
almost irresistible power and singu- 
lar unanimity when the most insig- 
nificant agency may be all that gives 
direction to their movement. 

Nothing ordinarily could have ap- 
peared more ridiculous than for five 
such men as Scourge, of the Sunday 


Plague , Senator Bloom, Browbeat, 
and Striker, who were merely disap- 
pointed, and consequently “ sore- 
headed,” politicians, and our bank- 
rupted and vagabond acquaintance, 
Tom Sponge, to undertake the inau- 
guration of a popular movement 
against the Tammany Society — a 
political power as old as the Govern- 
ment, and under the leadership of a 
man as capable as Barton Seacrist ; 
and under ordinary circumstances 
nothing would have been so futile. 
But now, as explained in a previous 
chapter, the public mind had grown 
jealous of a domination which seemed 
content with nothing short of abso- 
lute power, and many were ready to 
follow any standard of revolt that 
might be raised against it and its 
head. The attempt, therefore, was 
not so preposterous after all. 

At first, as might be supposed, the 
movement met with little positive 
encouragement ; but it enlisted at- 
tention, and that was a great deal. 
Scourge’s paper, which contained his 
opening attack on Tammany and 
Seacrist, was eagerly sought after, 
and enough extra copies of it were 
sold to throw the little man into a 
state of almost uncontrollable ec- 
stasy, and inspire him to greatly 
increased bitterness of assault. Peo- 
ple, too, began to talk ; not behind 
their doors merely, but upon the 
street ; and those who knew nothing 
— and that included nearly all — 
shook their heads a great deal more 
solemnly than if they knew every- 
thing. And then the five conspira- 
tors had never before been so busy 
in all their lives. Each had his ac- 
quaintances to whom he admitted 


118 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


that he was in the movement, and 
talked largely, but mysteriously, 
about his influential companions ; 
and in that way each one became the 
centre of a circle of ripples that 
went chasing all over the surface. 
The newspapers, too, which invari- 
ably get an inkling of everything that 
is going on, found out just enough of 
the meditated movement to set their 
inventive faculties fairly to work, and 
the most enlarged reports were, con- 
sequently, put in circulation. The 
secret meeting of five was speedily 
swelled to a formidable gathering of 
five hundred at least. 

The result of all this was that, by 
the time appointed for the meeting 
that was to introduce the People’s 
Anti-Tammany and Universal Re- 
form Party and its purposes to the 
public, general curiosity had been 
thoroughly aroused. An immense 
concourse of people assembled at the 
designated place. One of the larg- 
est halls in the city was filled. It 
was a motley crowd. A majority of 
those present had come merely to 
find out what it all meant, and, 
being neither hostile nor friendly, 
were ready to applaud or denounce 
according to the course of events. A 
small number were there manifestly 
to embarrass the proceedings as 
much as possible ; but a larger force, 
on the other hand, was clearly intent 
upon giving all the encouragement 
in its power. This last element con- 
sisted of members of the Mohican 
Society, and, although its leader, 
Abel Cummager, was not to be seen, 
their presence showed that the move- 
ment had his powerful, although se- 
cret, influence. 


The chairman was Senator Bloom, 
who was escorted upon the stage by 
Scourge, of the Sunday Plague. The 
appearance of the two men was the 
signal for some impertinence from 
the supporters of Tammany, but a 
roar of applause from the lusty 
throats of the Mohicans, completely 
drowned the opposition. Taking 
advantage of the calm that followed 
the storm, the Senator thanked the 
audience for the warmth of their re- 
ception, and succeeded in very satis- 
factorily getting through with the 
organization. Browbeat was the 
first speaker. He was met at the 
outset by some interruptions of a 
provoking nature, but, being a man 
who liked nothing so well as oppo- 
sition, he rose with the occasion, and, 
with the help of the Mohicans, got 
through triumphantly. Striker, who 
followed, was not so fortunate. He 
was an excitable man, easily losing 
his temper, and, becoming irritated 
by some taunting remarks from the 
crowd, began to scold back, and the 
result was a scene of indescribable 
confusion. The speaker’s enemies 
howled in disapprobation, while his 
supporters were still more clamor- 
ous with their cheers and calls of en- 
couragement, making between them 
a perfect bedlam, the orator mean- 
while dancing frantically up and 
down the stage, his arms fiercely 
beating the air, and his face livid 
with excitement and the desperation 
of his efforts to make his voice heard 
above the uproar in which it was 
completely drowned. The meeting 
was on the point of breaking up in a 
general row and riot, when some of 
the speaker’s friends, getting him by 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


119 


the coat-tails, dragged him into a 
seat. 

In the midst of the humming and 
buzzing noises that followed the great 
outbreak, a young man was brought 
before the audience, who, although a 
stranger to the majority of those 
present, at once commanded atten- 
tion by his tall, shapely form, his 
pleasant, earnest face, and his quiet 
dignity of manner. Silence imme- 
diately ensued. “ Fellow-citizens,” 
said the speaker in a voice perfectly 
calm and natural, but which reached 
to the most distant portion of the 
great chamber. Instantly a tall, 
gaunt man, with a flaming neck-tie, 
sprang up and began clapping his 
hands together. The demonstration 
spread, and what was clearly an im- 
pulsive, but hearty welcome to the 
youthful orator, swept round the 
assembly. The tall man was Tom 
Sponge, and the explanation of his 
enthusiasm was the fact that the 
speaker was Clinton Maintland. 

Clinton bowed his acknowledg- 
ment of the compliment, and then 
proceeded with his remarks. It was 
soon apparent to all that he was 
thoroughly master of the subject he 
was discussing. Some interruptions 
were attempted, but the general in- 
terest of the audience instantly sup- 
pressed them and they were discon- 
tinued. There was no straining for 
effect, no attempt at oratorical dis- 
play, and no denunciation of anybo- 
dy indulged by the speaker. He 
gave simply a calm and logical pre- 
sentation of the principles and facts 
involved in the questions that were 
foremost at the time. Having gone 
fully and fairly over the grounds 


that were embraced in the move- 
ment he advocated, he modestly took 
his seat. There was a moment’s 
quiet, and then the tall man with 
the flaming neck-tie was once more 
on his feet, frantically cheering and 
clapping his hands. The contagion 
of his example spread. The ap- 
plause became more general, and 
pretty soon the whole assembly was 
demonstrating as with one accord. 
As the noise began to subside, it was 
once more renewed, the man with 
the red neck-tie still leading, and 
this was again and again repeated. 
The meeting was a success. Clinton 
had carried the great audience, which 
was fairly representative of the whole 
community, with him ; its judgment 
had been convinced, and the Peo- 
ple’s Anti-Tammany and Universal 
Beform Party was from that mo- 
ment launched with flying colors. 

Before the excitement produced 
by Clinton Mainland’s successful de- 
but as a political orator had died 
away, a tall, spare man was seen 
making his way with some difficulty 
through the audience, and having at 
last reached the platform, ascended 
it, and came face to face with the 
people. “ Windsham !” cried a voice 
in the crowd, and the name was 
instantly taken up and shouted all 
over the room. The new-comer was 
indeed, no other than Windsham, 
the distinguished politician and ora- 
tor, who was introduced to the read- 
er in the earlier pages of this work. 
He had been occupying an obscure 
point in the hall from the com- 
mencement of the proceedings, as 
much as possible avoiding obser- 
vation ; but no sooner was the meet/- 


no 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ing’s success demonstrated than he 
pushed forward with the result just 
stated. Bowing again and again in 
response to the calls that were made 
upon him, he stepped to the front of 
the platform and delivered a speech 
in which he fully pledged himself to 
the movement that night publicly 
inaugurated. There was, indeed, 
very little in his address, although 
no man knew better how for the 
time to flatter and entertain a pro- 
miscuous audience ; yet his previous 
well-known connection with Tam- 
many and Seacrist made his acces- 
sion at that time appear most impor- 
tant, and added greatly to the in- 
terest and eclat of the occasion. 

The effect of such a commence- 
ment was even greater than the au- 
thors of the movement had hoped 
for. The meeting just described was 
the sensation of the time. Hun- 
dreds of substantial citizens fas- 
tened to give in their adhesion, and 
as for the professional politicians 
who crowded to pledge their sup- 
port to the new party, there seemed 
to be no end to them. Its projec- 
tors had, indeed, struck the public 
in the spring tide of its fullness, and 
had set in motion a current, which, 
with proper direction, could not pos- 
sibly fail to bear them on to victory. 


CHAPTER Yin. 

BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

The most important — and the 
least important — event in American 
affairs is a popular election ; the 
most important before — the least im- 


portant after — it is over. With the 
counting of the ballots usually dies 
the interest of a contest which has 
for a time set whole communities 
fiercely by the ears. 

The privilege of choosing our own 
rulers is, unquestionably, a most pre- 
cious one — to the majority. But 
what must be said for the minority 
which, after wasting its energies jn 
the arduous struggles of a long cam- 
paign, finds itself in the end doomed 
to the rule of the very men it has 
proved to its own satisfaction to be 
the worst in the community ? Of 
what value to it is the boon of self- 
government? Its will, instead of 
being carried into execution, is set 
at express defiance. 

If we could only meet as friends 
and brethren, persuaded that the 
greatest number necessarily possessed 
the largest supply of political wisdom, 
and content that its voice should 
prevail, how happy we would bb! 
And why not? Is not such the 
theory and the spirit upon which 
our whole system is predicated ? 
Alas, we have political parties ! / 

The machinery of party oigan- 
ization is the plague of a free people. 
It is the rack upon which the,' body 
politic is periodically stretched until 
bone is rent from bone, and the 
whole country is made sick a i/d sore. 
The process of choosing those who 
ought to be our public servants, by 
the simple agency of the ballot, 
would seem to be a very harmless 
operation ; and such, doubtless, it 
would prove, were there no partisan 
demagogues to lash us into a fury, 
and make us quarrel with each other 
whether we want to or not. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


121 


But, the election over, the excite- 
ment is over. All then are reconciled 
—-the majority because they have 
prevailed, the minority because they 
can’t help themselves. But is all 
danger over? Are there no heart- 
burnings, no rankling discontents, 
no severed friendships, no slumber- 
ing animosities — the seed of party 
planting — that remain to take fresh 
root and grow to harvests of angry 
strife ? Is not the quietude that 
succeeds to the noisy political con- 
test too often like the calm that fol- 
lows the battle — a peace that is pur- 
chased with bleeding wounds and 
broken hearts? 

In exposing the folly and crime to 
which parties and partisans lead, and 
teaching the duty of forbearance 
and moderation in the hour of the 
citizen’s severest trial, who will deny 
to fiction the power of doing some- 
thing ? Clearly it would be as unwise 
to reject its offices here, as it would 
be unpatriotic to withhold them. 
The supreme lesson which we, as a 
people, need to learn' — and no source 
of instruction is too unimportant to 
be overlooked — is the subordination 
to the common weal of those private 
and selfish preferences which it is 
the labor of party to excite — lest we, 
who boast so much of our privileges, 
may yet have reason to envy the 
Russian or the Turk the enjoyment 
of that stoical content which leads 
him to praise Heaven for the mercy 
of a despotism. 

No one more clearly realized the 
danger to which he was exposed by 
the events recorded in the imme- 
diately preceding chapters, than Bar- 
ton Seacrist. He had quite suffi- 


cient political experience and saga- 
city to estimate their forces, and to 
calculate to the fullest extent their 
probable bearings. He knew that if 
all the elements of opposition to his 
authority could be drawn into the 
new party movement, and made to 
work harmoniously together, as 
might, with prudent leadership, ea- 
sily be done, a force would be creat- 
ed greater than he could possibly 
command. He knew, too, that de- 
feat at this crisis would be utterly 
destructive of all his long-cherished 
schemes for personal and party ad- 
vancement, while the investigations 
to -which it would expose some of his 
past transactions, threatened ruin 
alike to reputation and estate. The 
defections from his interest, in many 
instances of men who owed every- 
thing to his patronage, were numer- 
ous and disheartening ; but none of 
them did he contemplate with as 
much pain and alarm as the aban- 
donment of his cause by Clinton 
Maintland, to whom he had looked 
as the chiefest instrument to carry 
his views into effect. Now Clinton, 
if elected to office, was likely to be 
as damaging as an adversary, as he 
had before promised to be valuable 
as an ally. Unless, in some way, the 
combination that was being formed 
against the great Sachem could be 
shattered between that time and the 
election — only a few weeks off — and 
especially Clinton Maintland’s de- 
feat be secured, all was lost. The 
prospect was, indeed, alarming. Yet 
no man appeared more easy and 
hopeful than Barton Seacrist. The 
same placid smile was on his brow, 
and he greeted his political friends 


122 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


with an ease and confidence that 
went very far to remove their fears 
on his and their account. Amid all 
the tumult and excitement of the 
hour, he was the most self-possessed 
man in New York. 

But, in his case, serenity did not 
betoken indifference. He was at the 
same time the most busy man in 
New York. Yet no one knew either 
what he was doing or intended to 
do. His reticence confused, and, to 
a certain extent, discouraged his 
enemies ; and therein was secured 
the first advantage. 

His social duties were not neglect- 
ed. Another dinner-party was given, 
to which were collected his still faith- 
ful friends and followers. Aider- 
man Skipp was there ; Grulls, the 
liquor merchant, was there ; the men 
of padding were there, for nowhere 
else could they get such dinners, and 
dinners to them were earth’s highest 
felicities ; Cinnamon Smooth was 
there, as smiling and amiable as 
ever.; and Abel Cummager was 
there, his dark brow brooding like a 
shadow at the feast, and evidently 
regarded by all except the host as a 
storm-cloud might have been, but 
himself perfectly cool and self-pos- 
sessed. And lastly, of those who 
need here be mentioned, was Scratch- 
al, of the Daily Docket ; for it was 
intended that the public should know 
that Barton Seacrist and his friends 
were, as usual, meeting and making 
merry. 

Whether it was owing to the ab- 
sence of Windsham, who had always 
before taken the lead at such enter- 
tainments, but who on this occasion 
was edifying a People’s Anti-Tam- 


many and Universal Reform meet- 
ing in another part of the city; or to 
the uncertain character of the politi- 
cal outlook, there was depression to 
be read upon every brow except 
those of the host and his daughter. 
Barton Seacrist was as vivacious 
and buoyant as ever, and Kate was 
even more than ordinarily brilliant. 
True, her eyes had a restless, hun- 
gry look, and her laugh, although 
loud and frequent, had a certain 
strained and fitful shrillness, which 
suggested effort rather than natural 
gayety. Her cheeks had grown per- 
ceptibly more hollow; but, thanks to 
Mademoiselle Cathron’s skill, they 
had never worn such glossy fresh- 
ness before ; while her wit was so 
sharp and sparkling, that even Abel 
Cummager, who, as usual, was seated 
by her side, was more than once 
compelled to give way to a smile. 

The table party soon broke up. 
Cummager was allured by Kate into 
the music-room, and there so well 
and faithfully entertained, that he 
found it impossible to bestow any 
attention elsewhere ; Cinnamon 
Smooth and one of the men of 
“ padding ” became uncommonly in- 
timate in a distant corner, while 
Scratchal, having obtained all that 
seemed essential for the next day’s 
Docket , took his departure at an early 
hour. Those who collected about 
the host of the evening, making a 
group of which he was the central 
figure, were without exception his 
tried and trusted political followers. 
The subject that engaged their atten- 
tion was the pending canvass. With 
no seeming effort Seacrist managed 
to draw from each of the others an 


FIVE HUNDBED MAJOBITY. 


123 


opinion concerning the course to be 
pursued, without, however, giving 
expression to his own. Alderman 
Skipp, considering the contest as 
hopeless, was in favor of avoiding 
defeat by calling off all bets and 
withdrawing the stakes ; Grulls sub- 
mitted a plan for securing all the 
liquor places of the city, dispensing 
free drink for three days before the 
time for voting, and then carrying 
the election before the people could 
know what they were doing ; while 
Hargate, who was more than ordi- 
narily confident in the absence of 
Clinton Maintland, boldly advocated 
an organization with a view to tak- 
ing forcible possession of the polls, 
and so placing the result beyond 
doubt, the material for which, he 
insisted, was ample and ready for ac- 
tion. The others present urged 
schemes quite as conflicting, and, ge- 
nerally, no more practicable. 

Barton Seacrist heard all patient- 
ly, bestowed a word of compliment 
on each one’s suggestion, and then 
quietly proceeded to unfold his own 
plan of operations. A very few 
words sufficed to make the matter 
plain. 

“There, gentlemen,” said he, in 
conclusion, “ you have my views. 
The day need not be given up as 
lost ; but to carry it will require 
your full and cordial co-operation. I 
need not ask if I may rely upon your 
assistance.” 

The response was all that he could 
have desired. 

When that little gathering dis- 
solved for the night, each member 
of it not only felt perfect confidence 
in the success of the common cause, 


but knew precisely what he was to 
do to help bring it about. 

That night, when all the guests 
were gone, and her faithful attend- 
ant, Mademoiselle Cathron, had been 
dismissed, Kate Seacrist was alone 
in her chamber. The air was balmy, 
and through an open window en- 
tered the softened, but, therefore, 
more bewitching, sounds of music 
and of dancing. They came from 
the residence of the Barnabas’ 
across ( the avenue. There was a 
grand party there that night ; but 
Kate was not one of those whose 
presence had been sought. It was 
not that the relations of the families 
had been at all unfriendly. From 
the time that the maternal Barnabas 
had so unexpectedly encountered 
“ dear Mrs. Goaring ” in the Seacrist 
mansion, down to within a very few 
days of the date now reached by 
this story, Adelia Barnabas had per- 
sistently addressed Kate as her “ dear 
sister the mother had lost none of 
her gushing demonstrativeness; and 
Bushmore, the spendthrift son of the 
Goaring household, having grown 
weary of his humble love, had turned 
his eyes most patronizingly upon 
her ; but now all was changed. The 
fortunes of the Seacrists were seri- 
ously imperilled ; and not merely 
stories of impending political ruin 
to their house, but whispers of the 
arrest and punishment of its head 
for certain alleged malfeasances, be- 
gan to fill the air. 

Weary and faint with the labor 
and strain of the night — for all her 
gayety had been assumed — Kate had 
seated herself at the open window, 
and was gazing sadly at the silent, 


124 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


starry lieavens, when the sounds of 
the ball-room reached her ears. Hav- 
ing listened a moment, a look of 
dreadful bitterness settled upon her 
face. 

“And is it for this,” at last she 
said aloud, “ and for the selfish flat- 
teries of such as these, that I would 
give up the love of one who is as 
much above them as yonder stars 
are above the earth ! Oh, God above, 
what am I doing ?” 

Then, as if to shut out the hateful 
sounds, she arose, hurried across the 
room, and, throwing herself upon her 
couch, buried her face in the pillow. 
When sleep at last overcame her, the 
pillow beneath her face was wet with 
her tears. 

As for Clinton Maintland, he was 
now dearly paying for his newly ac- 
quired popularity. All classes of 
people thronged to call upon him, 
and upon all conceivable pretences. 
Many were really friendly, and 
wished to show their good will, in 
which operation they managed to 
consume a great deal of valuable 
time. But the majority were purely 
selfish. Some wanted pledges of 
future favors. Some demanded pay 
direct for their influence, which, ac- 
cording to their own account, was 
positively enormous. And not a few 
desired to know his opinions on sub- 
jects which, although of first import- 
ance in their eyes, could have no 
possible connection with any of his 
prospective duties. Becoming utter- 
ly disheartened and disgusted with 
these visitations, he at last fled to his 
private office, and there sought re- 
fuge from his persecutors. 

Then it was that Tom Sponge’s 


services became invaluable. That 
public spirited individual not only 
remained behind to confront the 
multitude, but immensely enjoyed 
the excitement, and still more the 
importance the situation gave him. 
Decked out in his richest attire, he 
most graciously received and enter- 
tained the crowd in his employer’s 
stead. Having a thorough knowledge 
of nearly all comers, he adroitly 
adapted himself to their several 
wants and pre-conceptions, giving 
the most conflicting assurances in 
his principal’s name with a facility 
and condescension that was truly 
inimitable. As a public man he was 
a staunch believer in the doctrine of 
the end justifying the means. 

Tom was now truly in his element. 
He entered into the pending canvass 
with all his soul. His philippic 
against Tammany was repeated to 
every one whose ear he could pos- 
sibly secure. Seated in his employ- 
er’s office with three or four sympa- 
thetic listeners about him, no king 
upon his throne could have been 
half as great. But the measure of 
his happiness w r as completely filled 
when, at last, his name appeared in 
the list of speakers who were adver- 
tised to address the people. In al- 
most uncontrollable delight he stood 
upon the sidewalk and gazed upon 
the great poster which, in stunning 
capitals, from the dead wall of an 
adjacent building, announced that, 
“ The Hon. Thomas Sponge, with 
other distinguished speakers, will 
this evening, at Shoemakers’ Hall, 
address the public in behalf of the 
People’s Anti-Tammany and Univer- 
sal Reform ticket.” So enjoyable 


FIVE HUN DEED MAJOKITY. 


125 


was the sight that for a considerable 
time he stood unable to see or think 
of anything else. Suddenly, how- 
ever, a thought entered his mind 
which hurried him away in the 
utmost trepidation. He had his 
toilet to make. With the least pos- 
sible delay — for the hour was near at 
hand — he prepared himself for the 
grand occasion. His appearance, as 
he took a last survey of himself in 
his mirror, it would be impossible 
adequately to describe. His hair 
was accurately parted in the middle ; 
his neck-tie was of the very latest 
and gayest pattern ; vest and shirt- 
bosom were spotlessly white ; and 
his entire outfit was faultlessly im- 
posing. 

The misfortune was, that the place 
selected for the meeting was in one 
of the quarters of the city where 
audiences usually assembled in shirt 
sleeves and short jackets. They had 
no appreciation of the latest fashions, 
and rather a distaste to anything like 
respectable, not to say elegant, ap- 
parel. That fact the speaker who 
preceded Tom fully comprehended. 
He appeared before the people in a 
very shabby coat, out at both elbows, 
and with a great rent under each 
arm, and with no sign of a neck-tie 
of any description whatever. The 
consequence was that he had a most 
hearty reception. But when Tom 
presented himself in all the splendor 
of his finished make-up, the amaze- 
ment of his audience was intense. 
They inspected the singular being 
before them with as great curiosity 
as they would have one of Darwin’s 
original men ; and, but for Tom’s 
inevitable trouble with his throat, he 


might have got half through his 
speech before they could have recov- 
ered from their astonishment. But, 
as it was, with his “ughs” and his 
“ ha,” they recovered the use of their 
tongues as soon as he did his, and 
as soon began to use them. 

“My Fellow Citizens, ugh! ugh! 
I can tell you all about Tammany. 
(A solitary ‘ugh’ from the crowd.) 
I have myself been a victim of Tam- 
many’s proscription. (‘Ugh !’ ‘ ugh !’ 
from a dozen voices.) Fellow Citi- 
zens, (a general ‘ugh!’) we have a 
common interest in putting down 
(more ‘ughs!’) the (‘ugh!’) — the 
(‘ ugh !’) — the — ” but at this point the 
chorus of ‘ ughs ’ completely drowned 
the speaker’s voice. It was in vain 
that he attempted to make himself 
understood. Again and again the 
same response greeted his most 
desperate efforts ; until, losing his 
temper, he frantically danced up and 
down the platform and denounced 
the whole assemblage before him as 
a mob of Tammany’s hirelings. It 
mattered very little what he called 
them, as not one word was distin- 
guishable in the uproar. How long 
the struggle might have continued, 
it is quite impossible to tell, had not 
a butcher boy, on his way homeward 
with a calf’s heart done up in a 
piece of brown paper, and attracted 
to the meeting by the crowd, sudden- 
ly stripped off the cover and hurled 
his expected breakfast at the orator 
with such accuracy of aim as to 
strike him fairly in the breast. Tom's 
vest and shirt-bosom were, in conse- 
quence, covered with blood. A cry 
that the speaker had been shot was 
raised, and the meeting broke up in 


126 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


a fearful tumult. The gas was 
turned off and the crowd finally 
dispersed by the police from fear of 
a riot. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE PARTY STILL TO TAKE CARE OF HIM. 

Meanwhile matters in Willowford 
were jogging along pretty much in 
the old ruts. Perry Doubleman was 
still postmaster, although there had 
been a change of national adminis- 
tration, and at least half a dozen 
disappointed patriots of the success- 
ful party, who had vainly hoped to be 
his successor, had denounced the 
newly-elected President in such plain 
terms that he must have trembled in 
his official chair, had he but heard 
them. With Hugh Maintland af- 
fairs had grown no better. For the 
last year or two his crops had been 
lighter than ever before ; more of his 
cattle had perished of disease ; and 
his wife, never strong, had had seve- 
ral bad attacks, so that there had 
been doctor’s bills to pay. He still 
retained possession of the farm, not- 
withstanding he had twice been be- 
hindhand with the full amount of 
the rent. Expulsion from his home 
would, doubtless, have been the con- 
sequence — for although Colonel Kort- 
right had never made allusion to the 
disagreement between his tenant and 
himself, described in one of the ear- 
lier chapters of this book, he was 
not a marf either to forget or forgive 
such an occurrence — had it not been 
for Clinton’s timely assistance. His 
father had never asked him for mo- 


ney, for while he retained his bodily 
health and strength, Hugh Maint- 
land was too proud to beg even of 
his own son ; but, managing to keep 
himself advised as to the true condi- 
tion of his father’s finances, Clinton 
had, upon one pretext or another, 
sent forward remittances which hap- 
pened to supply deficiencies likely to 
exist on rent day. 

In other respects there had been 
no marked departure from the beat- 
en round either in Hugh Mainland’s 
or Willowford’s affairs. Both were 
obstinately conservative. Hugh him- 
self, Amos Grupp and Jonas Phips 
were as fast personal and political 
friends as ever, meeting almost daily 
in Perry Doubleman’s store to read 
the old favorite journals, discuss the 
old subjects, and arrive at the old, 
old conclusions. An event, however, 
was about to occur that was destined 
not merely to bring a new sensation 
to Willowford, but to put even the 
friendship of the trio just named to 
the test. 

Colonel Kortright, having filled se- 
veral official positions with credit to 
himself and satisfaction to the pub- 
lic, aspired to a seat in the Congress 
of the United States. It was a mat- 
ter of no difficulty for him to secure 
a nomination from his party ; but 
an election by the people threatened 
to be quite a different affair. The 
strength of the opposing parties in 
the district was so nearly equal that 
a few votes either way might turn 
the scale. After carefully going over 
the whole ground, Kortright reached 
the conclusion that, if he could se- 
cure the entire vote of his own town 
of Willowford, his election was cer- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


127 


tain ; otherwise the result would be 
very doubtful. A little further re- 
flection satisfied him that to accom- 
plish that most desirable point, it 
was necessary that he should secure 
the support of Hugh Maintland, 
whose influence with his neighbors 
of the same party was so great that 
they would, without doubt, be guided 
by his recommendation. The con- 
clusion was by no means an agreea- 
ble one ; for, while his position as 
landlord would necessarily give him 
great weight with his tenant, he 
knew that he would be an exceed- 
ingly hard man to turn against his 
political convictions. He distinct- 
ly, and even wrathfully, remem- 
bered how Hugh Maintland had 
stood up to his face and successfully 
defended his opinions, when all oth- 
ers had shrunk from before his su- 
perior presence. Still the case was 
so urgent that the experiment had to 
be tried. 

While meditating upon the best 
course to reach his self-willed ten- 
ant, Kortright read in a New York 
journal a full account of the Peo- 
ple’s Anti-Tammany and Univer- 
sal Reform movement in opposi- 
tion to the highest regular party 
authority, and of Clinton Maintland’s 
participation in its proceedings. 
The circumstance gave him great 
encouragement. He knew the pride 
Hugh Maintland had taken in the 
success of his son, and what confi- 
dence he had in his judgment. If 
the son could disregard party obli- 
gation and pursue an independent 
course, it was likely that the father 
would be the more inclined to do the 
same thing. Colonel Kortright was 


resolved that the opportunity should 
not be missed. Accordingly he lost 
no time in putting himself in Hugh 
Maintland’s way. 

“ I see,” he remarked, with a gra- 
cious smile, at the same time warmly 
shaking his tenant’s hand, “that 
your boy, Clinton, is making his 
mark in the world. He is really ac- 
quitting himself very finely. A 
noble stand he- has taken in the 
interest of good and honest govern- 
ment against a long-continued sys- 
tem of abuse. I must congratulate 
you, sir, upon having such a son.” 

Hugh Maintland made no imme- 
diate reply. Instead of showing in 
his countenance the satisfaction a 
compliment from such a source would 
ordinarily produce, he suffered his 
head to drop, and a look of pain 
passed over his features. At last, 
with an effort, he firmly met his 
landlord’s gaze, and observed : 

“I am glad to hear your good 
opinion of my boy. There is much 
to be said in his favor. His heart, I 
doubt not, is right, much as I regret 
the course he has seen fit to pursue. 
A father finds it easy to attribute an 
error on the part of his child to 
youth and inexperience.” 

“ Wliat !” exclaimed Kortright, in 
a voice of unaffected surprise, “ do I 
understand you to say that your 
son’s course meets with your disap- 
proval? I am amazed.” 

“It most certainly does,” replied 
Clinton’s father solemnly. “ I am a 
Conservative. I believe that the 
principles that are to be found with 
the Conservative party can alone 
save the government from ultimate 
dissolution ; and for a son of mine, 


128 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


brought up under my own instruction 
in the indoctrination of those prin- 
ciples, to be found allying himself 
with my party’s enemies, does, in- 
deed, give me great pain. My feel- 
ings are those of a father, sir.” 

How sincere this declaration was, 
appeared in the tremulous voice of 
the great strong man as he spoke. 

“ But, sir,” answered Kortright in 
a tone that was intended to be both 
conciliatory and persuasive, “ you lay 
entirely too much stress, in my judg- 
ment, upon the mere, fact of party 
discipline. Principle and party may 
be, and often are, very different 
things. Your son, in my estimation, 
entitles himself to much higher re- 
gard for the independence he has 
shown of that authority, which, gen- 
eral as it is, is too often the result 
merely of habit and education. In- 
deed, sir, I had hoped, after the ex- 
ample that has been given by your 
son, to find you so far free from this 
party prejudice, that you could give 
me your support in the approaching 
election.” 

“ It cannot be, sir.” 

“ Cannot be ?” 

“Not from any disrespect to you, 
Colonel Kortright, personally ; but 
because, as a party candidate, you 
are the representative of policies the 
success of which I sincerely believe 
would be disastrous to the nation. I 
should deserve to be set down as my 
country’s enemy, should I, entertain- 
ing such views, so far outrage my 
principles as to give you my vote.” 

“ Have a care, Hugh Maintland,” 
angrily exclaimed Colonel Kortright, 
as he listened to these words, “ what 
language you use. Do I understand 


you that I am, in your opinion, an 
enemy to the country ?” 

“Not at all, Colonel Kortright,” 
quietly rejoined Maintland. “I do 
not impugn your motives in the 
least. You have the same right to 
your political beliefs that I have to 
mine. What I mean is that, with 
our different opinions, I cannot con- 
sistently support you as a candidate ; 
nor could you, were I a candidate, 
consistently support me.” 

“Quite sufficient on that point, 
neighbor Maintland,” said Kortright 
condescendingly, a gracious smile 
returning to his ruffled features. 
“ Your explanation is quite sufficient 
I beg your pardon for misunder- 
standing you, for the apology should 
be mine. And now, neighbor, that 
matter being set right between us, I 
have something else to say to you — 
something in which w r e are both im- 
mediately interested.” 

Maintland, by a look of inquiry, 
invited the speaker to proceed. 

“You and I, Hugh Maintland,” 
the Colonel went on, “have known 
each other from boyhood. Our 
fathers were neighbors and friends 
before us. We have had our dis- 
agreements, and now belopg, as the 
language used in such matters is, to 
different political parties. But the 
question is whether, by our party as- 
sociations, we have not, after all, per- 
mitted ourselves to be more widely 
separated than we ought to be ? We 
have been differently educated ; and, 
if we go down to the bottom of our 
feelings, will we not find that our 
prejudices have had quite as much 
to do in forming our political opin- 
ions as our principles ?” 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


129 


“ Quite likely.” 

“ As I was saying,” resumed Col- 
onel Kortright, encouraged to pro- 
ceed by his companion’s seeming 
acquiescence, “ there is something 
else to be considered in politics be- 
side abstractions. Very few, while 
professing the utmost devotion to 
principle, in such matters wholly lose 
sight of their personal interests, and, 
as the world goes, is it not right 
and proper that that point should 
receive reasonable attention?” 

“As the world goes, undoubted- 

]y” 

“ Now you are a poor man, Hugh 
Maintland,” resumed Kortright, still 
more encouraged to proceed, “ and I 
am what the world calls a rich one. 
I am a candidate for an office upon 
which I set great value. I need and 
desire your assistance to obtain it ; 
but I have no right to ask you to 
labor for me without returning an 
equivalent. If I am profited by 
your agency, it would be but fair 
that you should derive some corre- 
sponding advantage. It is so the 
world goes. Thus far I hope we 
understand each other.” 

“Go on,” said Maintland calmly, 
although a close observer might have 
noticed a quicker heaving of the 
chest that indicated that all was not 
so still within. 

“ Now what I have further to say 
is this,” resumed Kortright with an 
assurance in his look and voice which 
clearly showed his confidence that 
what he was going to say would be 
entirely satisfactory. “You can, by 
exerting your influence with your 
party, give me the vote of this town. 
That ensures my election. I, on the 


other hand, can confer upon you 
something that may be to you of 
equal value. The farm you live 
upon is mine. It may be in my 
power soon to dispossess you of it, 
and turn you out, as old age is com- 
ing on you, penniless upon the world. 
The place is one you, doubtless, 
highly estimate. It is your home ; 
where you were born ; where you 
have lived all your life. Now, Hugh 
Maintland, use your influence to give 
me the vote of Willowford, and the 
day after the election I give you a 
clear title to the farm.” 

“Is that all?” 

The question was asked by Hugh 
Maintland, as if the matter was one 
scarcely deserving of consideration. 

“ Is it not enough ?” inquired Kort- 
right, with manifest surprise. 

“Yes, Colonel Kortright,” replied 
Maintland, his whole manner sud- 
denly changing, his eye flashing with 
anger, and his voice swelling to 
tones of thunder. “ It is enough to 
show that you have insulted me as 
foully as one man was ever insulted 
by another. You would buy my 
vote — my right and badge of citi- 
zenship — my political birthright. 
You would give me a farm for my 
manhood — and that you call a neigh- 
borly act — that is your magnani- 
mity. Colonel Kortright, I am a 
poor man — a very poor man ; be- 
cause the sweat of my face, beyond 
what has been required to feed my 
family, has gone to swell your wealth 
— and you are a rich man — a very 
rich man ; but, let me tell you that, 
after what has this day transpired 
between us, were you the candidate 
of my own party, instead of my po- 


130 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


litical adversaries, all your riches 
would not be sufficient to purchase 
my support. Good-day, sir.” 

With that Hugh Maintland turned 
upon his heel and strode away, leav- 
ing his landlord too much confound- 
ed for some minutes to stir from the 
spot. 

When Maintland reached Double- 
man’s store — for he was on his way 
there when Colonel Kortright had 
encountered him — he at once related 
the whole occurrence to Grupp, 
Phips, and a half dozen other lead- 
ing Conservatives that happened to 
be present. Their indignation was 
so intense that it was at once decid- 
ed that a meeting of all the mem- 
bers of their party in Willowford 
should be called to denounce, in pro- 
per terms, the dishonorable means 
the candidate of the opposition had 
sought to employ for the defeat of 
their party. 

The meeting in due time was held. 
Maintland stated the facts in the 
case ; speeches were made, in which 
a great deal of virtuous denuncia- 
tion was indulged, and the proceed- 
ings concluded with a series of stir- 
ring resolutions, prepared and sub- 
mitted by Phips, and unanimously 
adopted, one of which declared that, 
“ Inasmuch as our esteemed fellow- 
citizen and fellow-Conservative, Hugh 
Maintland, in defending the purity 
of the ballot and the integrity of our 
party, has not merely rejected an 
offer of wealth, but incurred a liabi- 
lity to pecuniary loss and suffering 
as the price of his fidelity, we hereby 
pledge him, in addition to our sym- 
pathies, such material assistance as 
will, should the necessity arise, fully 


protect him against all loss to be 
incurred for conscience’s sake.” 

The result of the affair was that 
Colonel Kortright, being beaten in 
Willowford, lost the election in the 
district. 


CHAPTER X. 

CONDUCTING A CANVASS. 

The People’s Anti-Tammany and 
Universal Reform party began with 
the blowing of many trumpets. Nu- 
merous meetings were held to ex- 
plain its purposes and advance its 
interests, and at first a most encour- 
aging popular response was met 
with. Clinton Mainland’s voice, 
among others, was heard in elucida- 
tion and vindication of its aims, and 
none secured a more patient and 
discriminative audience. But of all 
those who distinguished themselves 
in the great popular movement, the 
most vehement in asserting its claims 
to support, the most denuciatory of 
its opponents, and especially of Tam- 
many and its principal leader, and 
the most applauded of all its orators, 
was Windsham. He outdid all his 
previous efforts, both in zeal and el- 
oquence. Browbeat, too, did yeo- 
man’s service ; and Striker, having 
succeeded in finding a good-natured 
audience, made what was acknowl- 
edged to be a great “ hit.” Nor w T as 
Tom Sponge without his successes. 
Warned by his reception at Shoe- 
makers’ Hall to appear only before 
assemblages that showed in their 
apparel a taste approximating to 
his own, he delivered his philippic 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


131 


against Tammany with great effect 
on several occasions. But of all who 
were in the work, not one was so full 
of life and fire as Scourge. His 
Sunday Plague was now issued seven 
days in the week, so great was the 
demand it met with; and, when it 
appeared, it fairly blazed with the 
passionate force of its conductor’s 
fiery temper. Nothing was too harsh, 
and, for that matter, too absurd, to 
be applied by it to Tammany and 
Seacrist. 

All this did very well for a time ; 
and, if there had been an open and 
energetic resistance to keep up the 
excitement and interest of the con- 
test, or, in fact, to make any contest 
at all, there could have been no ques- 
tion of a successful issue to the move- 
ment. But this was not to be. 
Tammany resorted to tactics that 
were the very opposite of those fol- 
lowed by the new party leaders. It 
did not disband its organization, nor 
show any backwardness in its accus- 
tomed preparations ; it submitted 
its nominations and performed the 
other routine work of the canvass 
with perfect regularity ; but did 
everything so quietly and confidently 
that many began to conclude that 
the demonstrations against it were 
nothing but sound and fury after all, 
and would soon blow over. The 
result was that the new party’s meet- 
ings gradually became less and less 
plentiful in attendance, and less and 
less demonstrative in character — 
even Windsham failing to awaken 
the enthusiasm with which his first 
efforts had been attended ; and 
Scourge’s Plague was driven by lack 
of patronage, first to a tri-weekly, 


then to a semi-weekly, and finally to 
its old seventh-day edition. 

All this time Tammany was by no 
means idle. It was perfectly con- 
scious of its peril, and every man in 
its confidence was diligently, but 
quietly, at work. Grulls, the great 
liquor dealer, went the entire round 
of the city’s drinking places, and 
had long and confidential talks with 
their proprietors. Hargate had 
never been so active with the class 
of men of which he was the ruling 
spirit. Alderman Skipp was con- 
stantly on the move, mingling with 
those of congenial tastes, and mix- 
ing bets on the running powers of 
Lady Jane and his favorite ticket in 
a way that was wonderfully confus- 
ing. And, as for the Seacrists, al- 
though nevei* so undemonstrative, 
they had never been so busy. Bar- 
ton Seacrist held long and secret 
conferences with many people, some 
of whom, oddly enough, were public- 
ly recognized as among the most 
zealous of the new party’s members, 
and who were confidently intrusted 
with all its secrets ; while Kate, un- 
disturbed by calls from either the 
house of Goaring or Barnabas, and 
even discarding to a considerable 
extent the attentions of Mademoi- 
selle Cathron, sat with pallid cheek, 
and often with aching brow, through 
the long day, and sometimes far into 
the waning night, inditing editorials, 
correspondence, criticism, and even 
mots and puns and pithy epigrams 
for the Rocket and other journals in 
her father’s interest. 

But the People’s Anti-Tammany 
and Universal Reform Party had not 
only to contend with a policy of mas- 


132 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


terly inactivity on the part of its 
opponents ; it had internal troubles 
of its own. 

The Progressionists, having no 
possible chance of carrying the day 
by themselves, had been confidently 
relied upon to go boldly into the 
new movement, and to that effect at 
first seemed to be the disposition of 
all its members. But ere long there 
arose among them a faction that vio- 
lently denounced the proposed ar- 
rangement, and strenuously insisted 
upon entirely independent action. 
Its leaders were resolved to have 
nothing to do with Conservatives 
under any circumstances, and, by 
cunningly appealing to the party 
prejudices of their fellows, they suc- 
ceeded in drawing off a considerable 
element, whose strength was lost to 
the new party. At the head of this 
faction was Cinnamon Smooth. 

But disagreement of a still more 
malignant nature soon broke out in 
the bosom of the new organization. 
Personal rivalries and jealousies be- 
gan to appear. The management of 
the affairs of the party was intrust- 
ed to a committee of forty, of which, 
to ensure entire impartiality, twenty 
members were selected from the Pro- 
gressionists, and twenty from the 
Anti-Tammany Conservatives. Sen- 
ator Bloom aspired to the chairman- 
ship of the body ; and, owing to his 
early and faithful services in the 
cause, secured the enthusiastic sup- 
port of all his fellow-Conservatives ; 
but it so happened that all the Pro- 
gressionists tenaciously adhered to 
one of their own number. Valuable 
time was lost by this controversy, 
and, when it was at last settled by 


the unexplained absence of a Con- 
servative, and the consequent elec- 
tion of the Progressionist candidate 
by a majority of one, Bloom and 
some of his devoted adherents, charg- 
ing fraud upon their victorious ad- 
versaries, took up their hats and 
walked out of the room, never more 
to return. The result of this seces- 
sion was the necessity for the com- 
mittee’s re-organization ; while the 
indignant Bjpom and his followers, 
returning to their old allegiance, 
were more devoted supporters of 
Tammany than ever. 

Nor was that all. The commit- 
tee’s newly-elected chairman, who 
had been the cause of the trouble, 
and who was selected for the posi- 
tion because of that sort of respecta- 
bility which precluded all practical 
knowledge of political management, 
soon found the duties of the place so 
distasteful that he gave it up in dis- 
gust, and quit the movement alto- 
gether. Then the difficulty was, not 
in deciding upon the claims of rival 
aspirants, but in finding any one 
willing to be his successor. At length, 
after every other man on the com- 
mittee had respectfully declined the 
honor, the station was conferred upon 
the only one willing to accept it, who 
happened to be our old friend, Tom 
Sponge. 

Tom was now in his glory. The 
outfits in which he appeared to pre- 
side over the meetings of that au- 
gust assembly, were truly wonderful. 
It really seemed as though the mea- 
sure of his ambition were full. But 
Tom did not find the seat to be one 
of roses. A difficulty arose out of 
an unexpected and totally irrecon- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


133 


cilable quarrel of two of the com- 
mittee’s foremost members. The dis- 
putants were no other than the 
former Damon and Pythias of the 
movement, Browbeat and Striker. 
Each aspired to be leader. Both 
were men of many words and much 
tenacity of will, and, if one advocat- 
ed one side of a proposition, the 
other invariably championed the 
other. At first the most polished 
courtesy was observed in their dis- 
cussions; but in time the bounda- 
ries of decorum were passed. Sharp 
words passed between them, and 
then hot speeches were followed by 
insulting looks and acts. Great was 
the contempt which each in his coun- 
tenance expressed whenever the other 
arose to make a few remarks. At 
last even attention was denied. If 
Browbeat took the floor to say a few 
words, Striker would turn his back 
and begin to converse with his near- 
est neighbor ; and if Striker was the 
talker, Browbeat would retaliate in 
equally offensive manner. 

It was in vain that Sponge, who, 
as presiding officer, discharged the 
duties of his responsible position 
with great acceptability, endeavored 
to maintain the peace. A collision 
was inevitable. 

Striker was on his feet, more than 
ordinarily earnest in urging his 
views upon some important proposi- 
tion, and Browbeat, as usual, was 
whispering half aloud in the ear of a 
very patient neighbor who was try- 
ing to hear both speakers at the 
same time, when the orator, catch- 
ing what he supposed to be an insult- 
ing remark from his enemy, stopped, 
and fixing his eye upon him, hissed 


out that, “ It was to be regretted that 
people would come among gentle- 
men, who did not know how to be 
gentlemen themselves.” 

Instantly Browbeat, who had pre- 
tended not to be listening to the 
speaker at all, was on his feet, de- 
manding to know if that observa- 
tion was intended for him. 

“ If the shoe fits, wear it,” was the 
cool reply. 

“ You are a scoundrel !” 

“ You are a ” 

Before the last sentence was fin- 
ished the two men were rushing 
furiously at each other. Sponge, 
who as presiding officer had vainly 
endeavored to quell the tumult, 
sprang in between them just in time 
to' receive the blow which each in- 
tended for his adversary. So intent, 
however, were the pugilists upon 
their bloody work, that neither dis- 
covered his mistake, and both con- 
tinued to pummel away at their 
innocent victim most furiously, un- 
til drawn off by kindly intervention, 
leaving Sponge almost in a state of 
pulverization. 

The result of this unhappy occur- 
rence was, not merely that the com- 
mittee was for several days deprived 
of the valuable services of its chair- 
man, but the next day after the bat- 
tle each party to it sent in a letter of 
withdrawal, alleging his unwilling- 
ness to be associated with any body 
in which the other was tolerated. On 
the same day the two men met in the 
presence of Barton Seacrist, each 
having gone to make terms with 
Tammany’s leader, and, by his per- 
suasion, they shook hands, agreed to 
forgive and forget, and became faster 


134 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


friends than ever. Nor was that all 
the trouble. Both Browbeat and 
Striker had their personal friends on 
the committee, who likewise with- 
drew and followed their leaders to 
Tammany, creating a necessity for 
another reorganization. 

Yet another and more serious diffi- 
culty in time confronted the conduct- 
ors of the new party. That was the 
lack of money. At first, when excite- 
ment was at fever heat, a fund quite 
sufficient for all the expenses of the 
campaign had been collected ; but, 
as every one prominent in the work 
was allowed access to the treasury, 
the supply was soon exhausted ; and 
then it was found ail but impossible 
to obtain adequate contribution. 
What made the dilemma the more 
vexatious was the fact that, at this 
precise crisis, Scourge declared that 
his losses and sacrifices for the cause 
had been such that he must have 
pecuniary assistance. With much 
difficulty a fund was raised and paid 
over to him. 

On the very day the money was 
received by him, Scourge was closet- 
ed with Barton Seacrist. On the 
next, the Sunday Plague contained 
the following : 

“ THE SPONGE COMMITTEE. 

“A sense of journalistic duty impels us 
to expose one of the most flagrant impo- 
sitions ever attempted to be practiced upon 
a credulous community. It is the mission 
of the Plague to show up all knaves, hypo- 
crites, and false pretenders. How fearlessly 
we shall do our duty, let the public judge 
from the revelation we are about to make. 
There is a body of men in this city, styling 
itself a committee, which is engaged in 
trying to obtain money from well meaning 


people, upon the plea that it is working in 
the interest of political reform. Never was 
there a more false and fraudulent misrepre- 
sentation. The members of that committee 
are not laboring for the public good at all. 
They are seeking only their own private 
and selfish interests. They are impostors. 
Whoever complies with their demands is 
imposed upon — swindled. To prove that 
we do not mis-state the case with regard to 
this committee, i is only necessary to men- 
tion the fact tnat its chairman is one 
Sponge, a noisy, foppish, shallow creature, 
with limited brains and much presumption, 
who has for years led the life of a vagrant 
and a leech upon the benevolent. By the 
help of some of the more respectable of the 
sham reformers and his own impertinence, 
he has at last succeeded in reaching a posi- 
tion that gives him a still better opportunity 
to practice his knavish tricks. His career, 
however, is at an end. The Sunday Plague 
has sealed his doom. Let all beware of 
Sponge and his bogus committee.” 

But while Barton Seacrist and his 
political confederates had been ap- 
parently inactive, it was not from 
inertia, but at first to disintegrate 
and demoralize their adversaries, 
and afterwards to strike them a more 
telling blow. The time to show their 
hands and their power had come. 
An announcement was at last made 
that Tammany would have a public 
demonstration. No great prepara- 
tion was to be seen — merely enough 
to awaken public curiosity—but se- 
cretly the most careful and elaborate 
provision had been instituted. Bor 
days, and even weeks, Skipp and 
Grulls, and Hargate, and all of Tam- 
many’s faithful adherents, were busy 
among their retainers getting them 
ready for the grand event. No money 
was spared. Torches, and banners, 
and transparencies were accumulated 
in almost unlimited quantity, and 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


135 


hundreds and thousands of men, 
many of them hired and brought in 
from abroad for the purpose, were 
liberally paid to bear them aloft and 
help swell the grand procession. 
Never had New York seen such a 
display. Alderman Skipp, mounted 
upon Lady Jane, and filling the role 
of Grand Marshal, had never been 
so proud ; and Grulls, and Hargate, 
and Browbeat and Striker — the two 
last named riding side by side — at 
the head of their respective followers, 
filled positions almost as conspicuous. 
It was, indeed, a most wonderful 
pageant, as the vast procession went 
sweeping through the streets of the 
great city. Torches blazed, cannons 
roared, music rose and swelled upon 
the air, and the cheers of thousands 
who carried the price of their enthu- 
siasm in their pockets, made the 
occasion a transcendent and tremen- 
dous success. And when the ground 
where the public speaking was to be 
— for no hall in the city would have 
held a tithe of that vast assemblage 
— was reached, acres and acres of 
people were crowded round the 
stands. Upon the principal plat- 
form, as presiding officer, was Sena- 
tor Bloom, while Scourge, of the 
Sunday Plague, occupied a position 
in close proximity, both supremely 
happy in the giddy triumph of the 
hour. 

But wonderful as all this exhibi- 
tion was — except to the cunning 
hands that had set the machinery in 
motion — and strangely fascinating to 
the majority of lookers-on, a greater 
surprise was still in store. The 
evening was well-nigh spent ; the 
principal orators had made their 


rousing appeals ; Browbeat and Stri- 
ker had both been heard ; the en- 
thusiasm of the assembly had risen 
higher and higher, when a man, tall, 
spare, and with closely-shaven face, 
was seen ascending the principal 
platform, whose countenance was fa- 
miliar to many in the crowd. The 
cry of “ Windsham ! Windsham !” 
was raised first by one or two voices; 
but soon “ Windsham ! "Windsham I” 
was heard from all parts of the 
throng. The tall man, bowing pro- 
foundly, and with a gracious smile 
upon his face, stepped forward .and 
began to address the people. He 
boldly proclaimed that he had been 
following after “ strange political 
gods,” but expressed his supreme sa- 
tisfaction at finding himself /mce 
more at the shrine of St. Tammany. 
He freely made sport of his late 
party associates, perpetrating his 
best jokes at their expense, and con- 
vulsing his audience with laughter 
by the caricatures he drew of their 
performances, and then concluded 
his harangue with an appeal such as 
only Windsham knew how to make, 
exhorting his hearers to stand by 
the old party, the old principles, and 
the old men, all of which he eulo- 
gized in the most exalted terms. He 
concluded amid thunders of applause 
from the partisans of Tammany, who 
saw in him what they supposed to 
be the chief leader of the opposition 
won over to their cause ; and the 
great assembly gradually dispersed 
with the wildest manifestations of 
delight. 

The effect of this demonstration 
was precisely what Barton Seacrist, 
with his thorough knowledge of po- 


136 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


litics, calculated it would be. He 
knew how the enthusiasm and the 
pageant had been created, and how 
much of both was unreal ; but the 
public did not. They supposed that 
the exhibition had been a genuine 
expression of political feeling. It in 
consequence completely changed the 
current of public opinion. Those 
who had before talked about Tam- 
many being dead, now declared that 
the bottom had fallen out of the op- 
position movement. Men of charac- 
ter w r ere unaffected ; but the politi- 
cal drift-wood that had been carried 
away in the first excitement attend- 
ing the organization of the People’s 
Anti-Tammany and Universal Re- 
form party, quickly drifted back to 
the old moorings. Barton Seacrist 
received all who, having temporarily 
strayed away, returned to renew their 
allegiance, kindly and with no de- 
monstration either of exultatiop. or 
resentment. His power over them 
was more firmly established than 
ever. 

During these events Clinton Maint- 
land, as we have already seen, was 
not unemployed, nor is it to be sup- 
posed that he was uninterested. 
There were times, it is true, when 
disgusted with the insincerity, in- 
trigue and selfishness of which he 
was unavoidably a witness, and net- 
tled at the abuse and misrepresenta- 
tion to which he and his friends 
were exposed, he internally execrat- 
ed politics, and heartily wished him- 
self back to his clients and his 
books ; but that feeling could not 
long be predominant. Ambition gra- 
dually made its way to his heart, 
and, as he listened to the applause of 


audiences delighted with his words, 
or contemplated the positions of trust 
and usefulness that stood out before 
him in the line of possible promo- 
tion, he was forced to acknowledge 
that a political life had unexpected 
attractions. 

There was another inducement to 
the course he was pursuing. He 
had not forgotten Kate Seacrist. 
He could not help but think of her ; 
and there were times when he even 
believed that he still loved her. He 
tried to drive her image from his 
thoughts ; for what business had it 
there? But the struggle w r ould go 
on, and then the excitement of poli- 
tics was a relief. At such times he 
would fly to the noise and tumult 
and contention of the conflict that 
was raging about him, to find peace. 

There was one check, however, 
upon his enthusiasm — one drop of 
bitter in the stimulating cup that 
grew more grateful to his taste the 
more he partook of its contents, and 
that he found in the following letter : 

Willowpoed, N. Y. 

My dear son : I need not inform you 
how much I have been surprised, as the 
story is told by the journals of your city, at 
your, to me, unaccountable political con- 
duct. I wish that were all I had to say 
concerning it ; but truth compels me to 
add that I am most profoundly pained by 
the intelligence. 

Surely you will not wonder at the sorrow 
thus expressed, in view of what you know 
to be my life-long political convictions. I 
have too often, in your presence, to need 
repetition here, given expression to the be- 
lief, and the grounds upon which it rests, 
that the Constitution — which is but another 
term for the government under which we 
live — is alone safe in Conservative hands ; 
and that all so-called Progressionists are 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


137 


simply Jacobins and destrnctionists who 
would bring inevitable ruin upon the coun- 
try. I know that by some I am looked 
upon as an extremist in my views, and it is 
possible that your later associations may 
incline you to that opinion ; but let me say 
that I have given the subject the best con- 
sideration of which I am capable — that I am 
now an old man — and that the conclusion 
just avowed is the result of a life-time’s 
study. Opinions thus formed are not to be 
lightly rejected. I never dreamed that a 
son of mine could so soon cast them to the 
winds, and take up his portion with fanatic- 
al Progressionists, aqd — still worse — Con- 
servative renegades. Of all men my great- 
est distrust — you will pardon the seeming 
censure — has ever been for the deserter. 

I frankly admit that my party may err — 
that it is not infallible — that it may have 
bad men in it, and over it — but with all its 
errors, while it remaius the custodian of 
true principles of government, it is an infi- 
nitely safer dependence than an organiza- 
tion without principles, or with principles 
at war with the teachings of the Constitu- 
tion. Of all things, beware of the heresy 
that a patriot cannot be a party-man. Hence 
I am especially pained to see you at war 
with Tammany Hall, the accepted leader of 
Conservatism. It matters not that Tam- 
many itself may be corrupt — while it stands 
as the party’s head, its authority should be 
implicitly obeyed. I have always had a sin- 
cere reverence for Tammany. 

Now, my dear son, grieved as I am by the 
course you have seen fit to pursue, I am 
not without hope that your error is of the 
head, rather than of the heart — that you 
have been led away by some temporary 
caprice — and that you will yet find your 
way back to the faith, not merely of your 
father, but of the country’s fathers. And 
by all means, let me exhort you to return 
to Tammany, even as the Prodigal Son re- 
turned to his forgiving father, that your 
peace may once more be made. This is the 
appeal that comes from a loving and trust- 
ing parent’s heart. 

We are all in bodily health. Your mother 
is anxious lest you may overheat yourself at 
political meetings. She advises prudence 


and Baldwin’s Anti-Caloric Stimulator. I 
have had a disagreement with Colonel 
Kortright, growing out of a political dis- 
putation. It is probable that, in conse- 
quence, he will dispossess me of the farm, 
as I shall not have the full amount of the 
rent by next pay-day. I have, however, 
asserted my convictions, and my conscience 
is clear. 

As ever, your loving father, 

Hugh Maintland. 

Clinton was deeply troubled by 
the foregoing epistle. Had it come 
a little sooner, it might have changed 
his whole course of political action. 
While but partially sympathizing 
with his father’s views, he was too 
dutiful a son not to feel most keenly 
the fact of having brought sorrow to 
a loving parent’s heart. The feeling 
thus created, was, however, in part 
counteracted by the following, which 
arrived at the same time : 

Deer Nefyu: I’m a feared yur gittin in- 
tu deap water. I sea by the papers, which 
I generally don’t reed, that yur a candy date . 
That wus what I wus a feared wood cum 
when yu wood go tu New York. I new yu 
had a hed fur sumthin great, and hens I 
feared tha wood try too draw yu in. Yu 
may be rite and yu may be rong. I take 
no stock in parties, and never cood make 
hed nor tale of N. Y. poletix. But rite or 
rong, my fears exist, and I want yu tu let 
me no rite off if yu git intu trubbel. Re- 
member yur promis tu 

Yur luvin Unkle, 

Martin Swartwout. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A FLAG PRESENTATION. 

As was to be expected in so im- 
portant and spirited a contest, a can- 
didate was placed in opposition to 
Clinton Maintland, who was another 


138 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


of our acquaintances, Gordon Sea- 
crist. That so young and inexperi- 
enced a person — in everything apper- 
taining to the duties of the position 
to which he aspired — should be se- 
lected for so responsible a trust, 
might have appeared surprising had 
he not been Barton Seacrist’s son. 
As it was, his father’s name and in- 
fluence were quite sufficient to insure 
the young man the support of the 
party whose votes he had a right to 
expect. The secret of his candidacy, 
however, was that, having understood 
a seat in the Legislature to be the 
gateway to sundry profitable busi- 
ness enterprises in whose emoluments 
he was anxious to share, he had gone 
to his father and demanded a nomi- 
nation under the threat of joining in 
the People’s Anti-Tammany and Uni- 
versal Beform movement, and making 
Certain disclosures that would have 
been most damaging in their nature. 
Barton Seacrist, unable to resist the 
filial appeal, when supported by such 
formidable arguments, and perhaps 
concluding that his son was in no 
event likely to be greatly worsted by 
a participation in politics, yielded 
the point, and Gordon’s name went 
upon the Tammany ticket. Scourge, 
of the Sunday Plague, had at first 
attacked the young gentleman with 
great severity, charging upon him 
certain practices that were very far 
from being to his credit ; but then 
Scourge, after his reconciliation with 
Tammany, made it all right by de- 
claring that Gordon was “ a chip of 
the old block,” and that “ the trunk 
from which he grew was sound tim- 
ber to the core.” 

It thus happened that Margaret 


Kortright, who, it will be recollected 
from the information communicated 
in the last chapter of the preceding 
Book, was now Gordon Seacrist’s 
betrothed, was often reminded of her 
old acquaintance and boy-lover, Clin- 
ton Maintland. True, the intelli- 
gence she received was not generally 
of a very complimentary character, 
coming either from Tammany organs 
or from her husband-elect. Yet it 
made her think of him very often — 
especially after her recent singular 
. meeting with him in an act of mutual 
benevolence — and sometimes she felt 
very sad to reflect that one whom 
she remembered so kindly, had 
proved himself so unworthy of her 
regard. She, indeed, pitied him 
very much. 

Gordon failed not to keep his 
bride-to-be fully, advised as to all 
that was interesting in the cam- 
paign. Every time he saw her he 
had something new to communicate, 
displaying either astonishing weak- 
ness or folly on the part of the An- 
ti-Tammany people, or correspond- 
ing sharpness on the other side — the 
latter view being usually enforced by 
some incident of which the relator 
was the hero. It is true that Mar- 
garet did not see much of her lover 
— not as much, by any means, as she 
desired ; for, as was her duty to be, 
she was very fond of him. But then 
Gordon was so . busy with political 
matters that he could not afford to 
give her much of his valuable time. 
He had, according to his own ac- 
count, nearly the entire responsi- 
bility of his party upon his shoul- 
ders. The number of meetings and 
consultations he had to attend, and 


EIVE HUNDEED MAJORITY. 


139 


which could not possibly get along 
without him, was astonishing. 

To show how fully his time was 
taken up by his political duties, it is 
only necessary to recount his usual 
round of engagements. After din- 
ner it was his custom to call for a 
short time on the ladies — that is, 
Margaret and her cousin, Clara Baf- 
ford — giving them a hasty resume of 
the situation, and then, as there was 
to be an important meeting that eve- 
ning which he had to attend, he 
would hurry away. The meeting 
referred to was made up of the 
usual habitues of his party head- 
quarters, with whom he was accus- 
tomed to spend an hour in smoking 
cigars and discussing the news and 
probabilities of the canvass ; and 
then, finding the time growing hea- 
vy on his hands, he would sally 
forth to engage in the arduous la- 
bors of electioneering. That busi- 
ness ordinarily took him to sundry 
popular resorts, where he spent a 
a good deal of time and some mo- 
ney in cultivating the good opinion 
of their frequenters, and playing a 
few games at billiards with such par- 
ticular friends as he might chance to 
meet. By the time he had gone the 
round of these establishments, the 
hour of midnight had usually come, 
when, in company with a few choice 
spirits, whom he generally managed 
to pick up, he would proceed to Abel 
Cummager’s, there to pass what re- 
mained of the night. The following- 
day was given to repose — a disposi- 
tion necessary to recruit his exhaust- 
ed energies, and prepare him for a 
renewal of his onerous tasks. 

But apart from the pressure which 


his labors as a candidate imposed 
upon his time, it must be admitted 
that one reason why Gordon was so 
inattentive as a lover, was the fact 
that, much as he adored Margaret 
herself, he did not particularly care 
for her society. It imposed upon 
him a certain restraint, which, in 
spite of his devotion, was irksome. 
In wooing her, he had not, with his 
natural ease and plausibility, found 
it very difficult to assume a charac- 
ter which was somewhat constrained, 
but which, when the victory was 
won, he did find it hard to continue. 
When in her presence it was neces- 
sary for him to keep guard over cer- 
tain familiar expressions and opin- 
ions which he was constantly in dan- 
ger of letting slip. In fact, there 
was a lack of congeniality between 
them which he felt far more keenly 
as a lover than he thought he should 
as a husband, since the latter char- 
acter, as he argued, gave much 
wider scope for natural demeanor. 

There was another obstacle in the 
the way. Margaret, while she tried 
to take an interest in the great con- 
test to which her affianced was so 
prominent a party, did not really 
care for politics, and failed to appre- 
ciate some of the fine strategical 
points he was at great pains to ex- 
plain to her, even going so far as 
sometimes to question their pro- 
priety. She was, as she frankly ad- 
mitted, wholly unsuited for a politi- 
cian. 

Taking all these things together, it 
is no great wonder that Gordon 
should have confidentially remarked 
to Bill Travers, who was one of his 
particular friends, and had oblige 


140 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


inglv waited at a convenient saloon 
while he made a call of ceremony 
upon Margaret, that she was “a 
deuced superior girl, but something 
of a bore.” 

With Clara Bafford, Gordon got 
along a great deal better. Somehow 
when alone with her, he felt a free- 
dom that was wholly wanting when 
Margaret was by, and which was 
vastly agreeable. He, consequently, 
contrived to spend as much time 
with that sprightly young person as 
with his intended bride. She was a 
most ardent politician ; took a very 
lively interest in the contest then go- 
ing forward ; fully entered into all of 
Gordon’s plans and explanations ; 
and over and over declared her re- 
gret that she had no vote to give 
against that horrid Clinton Maint- 
land. 

But ill adapted as Margaret was 
to a political life, and weary as she 
was growing of the talk about par- 
ties and canvasses and elections, she 
was not to escape a share in the 
pending conflict. Gordon, at one of 
his calls, submitted a most unusual 
request. On the following evening 
“The Gordon Seacrist Association” 
was to be publicly presented a ban- 
ner, of which he was the donor, and 
which he wished her to deliver in his 
name. 

“The Gordon Seacrist Associa- 
tion ” was composed mainly of butch- 
er boys connected with one of the 
city markets, and occupied a hall in 
a most unsavory quarter of the city. 
It was essentially a political club, 
and had at different times borne the 
names of a good many political lead- 
ers, sometimes of one party and 


sometimes of another ; but was, 
nevertheless, a most efficient organi- 
zation on election day. It never 
failed to vote its full strength — some- 
times, when there was pressing ne- 
cessity, several times over — and was 
a most convenient body in case the 
public good required the forcible tak- 
ing possession of a voting-place or 
the smashing of a ballot-box. Gor- 
don Seacrist enjoyed the distin- 
guished honor — for which he had 
handsomely paid — of supplying the 
Association its latest name, with a 
pledge of its fullest support in the 
pending contest ; and in part ac- 
knowledgment of so flattering a 
compliment, was about to have pre- 
sented to it a beautiful banner, em- 
blazoned with a picture of the Ameri- 
can eagle bearing aloft a scroll and 
motto of vox populi vox dei, which 
he had had prepared at considerable 
expense. He wanted Margaret to 
make the formal presentation. The 
speech to be repeated on the delivery 
of the standard to the President of 
the Association had been prepared 
by Bill Travers, and all that was ne- 
cessary was for her to commit it to 
memory, and speak it at the proper 
time and place. 

Margaret at first declined the medi- 
tated honor, not from any disrespect 
to the Gordon Seacrist Association, 
which she had no doubt, from the 
name it bore, was a very respectable 
body, but from a sense of natural 
modesty. Clara, who happened to 
be present, at once began to urge 
her compliance. 

“ You will make the speech, won’t 
you, Clara, if Margaret refuses V” 
asked Gordon, with a look that was 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


141 


even more expressive than his words ; 
and which Margaret noticed. ' 

“ Yes, I will,” was Clara’s prompt 
reply. 

Now Margaret was not jealous, 
even then ; but she could not help 
noticing the good understanding 
that seemed to exist between the 
other two. 

“ Very well ! if I must, I will,” she 
said, and so it was settled. 

Clara had a headache, and Marga- 
ret had to accompany Gordon alone. 
Going in a close carriage after night, 
she formed no idea of the character 
of the locality to which she was 
taken. She at last found herself in 
a small room off the main hall of the 
Association, where she could confus- 
edly hear the mingled voices of rough 
men that came to her ears like the 
roar of so many caged animals — a 
sound by no means calculated to 
allay her nervousness. It was ar- 
ranged that, at a given signal, with 
a green scarf over one shoulder, a 
starry crown upon her head, and the 
banner in her hand, she was to ad- 
vance upon the platform to which 
the door from her room opened, and 
there, where the President of the 
Association, who was no other than 
Dennis Hargate, was to receive her, 
the presentation ceremony was to 
take place. But, by some miscalcu- 
lation, the signal was given too soon ; 
and, while Gordon, the President, 
and other officers of the Association 
were in a neighboring saloon discuss- 
ing sundry bottles of wine, Margaret 
marched upon the platform, flag in 
hand, and there, with no one to re- 
ceive her, found herself standing 


alone in the presence of the assem- 
bled multitude. 

The butcher boys who made up 
the majority of the spectators, had 
got their notions of ladies who ap- 
pear upon the stage in concert sa- 
loons ; and, as Margaret presented 
a really commanding appearance, 
they immediately began to testify 
their admiration in their accustomed 
way. No sooner, consequently, had 
she recovered from the consternation 
into which she was thrown by the 
storm of cheers, yells, and cat-calls 
with which she was greeted, than 
she found her ears saluted by com- 
ments upon her appearance, and ob- 
servations addressed to herself, 
which, although intended to be com- 
plimentary, w r ere totally unlike any- 
thing to which she had been used. 
Shocked and frightened almost to 
death, she dropped the flag, and fled 
from the building by the first door 
she came to. On she went, only 
anxious to escape from that horrible 
place, and soon found herself hur- 
rying along a narrow, wretched 
street, filled with sights and people 
which at that hour seemed doubly 
frightful. Nor was her terror dimin- 
ished by discovering, from the gaze 
she encountered and the shouts that 
followed her, that she was attracting 
general attention, in her fright hav- 
ing forgotten all about the scarf and 
crown she was wearing. On she 
pressed with increasing apprehen- 
sion, until, in attempting to pass a 
knot of rough -looking men, she 
found her arm seized by a great 
burly fellow, who shouted out with a 
horrid laugh : 


242 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


“ Why so fast, now, me darlin ?” 

Margaret struggled desperately to 
free herself, and, the sleeve of her 
dress giving way, she succeeded in 
tearing loose, and fled. Her perse- 
cutor, however, was not to be thus 
easily thwarted. He pursued, while 
his companions encouraged him with 
shouts and cheers. The race was a 
short one, and Margaret uttered a 
piteous scream as she felt the ruffian’s 
hand upon her shoulder, and his 
nauseous 'breath swept across her 
cheek. But help was at hand. 

Attracted by her outcry, a tall and 
well dressed gentleman who at that 
moment was passing, stopped and 
authoritatively ordered the villain to 
“ unhand that woman.” 

Surprised by the command and 
the tone in which it was delivered, 
the fellow released his hold, and 
Margaret sprang to the side of her 
deliverer. But the danger was not 
over. The momentarily baffled .scoun- 
drel was still disposed for mischief. 
He once more stretched out his hand 
to seize Margaret, but was met with 
a blow that sent him reeling into the 
gutter ; while her defender, enclos- 
ing Margaret’s arm in his own, hur- 
ried her away. He was none to rap- 
id in his movements. The fallen 
man quickly regained his feet, and 
his companions joining him, they 
gave chase, uttering fearful threats 
and imprecations. Owing to Mar- 
garet’s fright and faintness, the race 
was an unequal one ; but, luckily, 
the stranger, discovering a dark pas- 
sage-way leading from the street, 
turned into it, dragging his compan- 
ion with him ; while their pursuers, 
not noticing the movement, went 


cursing and howling by. In dark- 
ness and in ignorance of where they 
were going, the fugitives pressed si- 
lently on, Margaret so far overcome 
as to be scarcely able to walk, and 
heavily leaning upon her preserver’s 
arm. A short distance brought them 
into a sort of inner court, unlighted, 
slippery and foul with garbage, and 
rank with unsavory odors. Here 
they stumbled about for a considera- 
ble time before an outlet could be 
discovered. At last another dark 
passage was found, and into it they 
ventured. Fortunately, it led. them 
to a broad and well-lighted street, 
full of people and passing vehicles ; 
and they were safe. 

Up to this time not a word had 
passed between them ; but here the 
stranger, turning to Margaret, asked, 
in a voice that was stern almost to 
harshness : 

“ Now, Miss, where is your home — 
if you have one ?” 

The speaker’s voice softened a lit- 
tle on the concluding words ; but the 
reproach conveyed by the suspicion 
they implied, so humiliated Margaret 
that she could only falter out in 
reply : 

“ Will you call a carriage, sir ?” 

The driver of a passing hack was 
signalled, and Margaret was assisted 
into it by her strange attendant. 

“Now, where to, Miss?” he asked, 
giving a start of surprise when an 
up-town fashionable street was 
named in reply. Nevertheless, he 
gave the direction to the coachman, 
and then stepped back as if to walk 
away. 

“ Stop, sir ! Let me thank you 
for ” 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


143 


The coach was starting, and, in 
order to be heard, Margaret put 
forth her head in such a way that 
the light from a street lamp fell di- 
rectly upon her face. 

“ Good heavens !” was the exclam- 
ation that at this point greeted her 
ears ; and, at the same time, the 
first fair view she had got of her 
protectors visage revealed the aston- 
ished countenance of Clinton Maint- 
land. 

“ Oh, Mr. Maintland, I wish to see 
— speak to you,” exclaimed Marga- 
ret, eagerly, but in vain. The coach 
was rattling on, and her voice was 
lost in the noise of the wheels. 

At first, overcome with a feeling of 
utter vexation and shame, Margaret 
threw herself back upon the carriage 
seat and burst into tears. But de- 
pressed as she was, both in body and 
mind, by the incidents through 
which she had just passed, her 
thoughts refused to be unemployed, 
and the object upon which they 
dwelt was very naturally the man 
from whom she had just separated — 
her early friend and play-fellow ; 
but whom she had excluded from 
her presence as unworthy of all as- 
sociation. But, in the light of what 
had that night occurred, could he be 
so unworthy ? Might there not be 
some mistake — some injustice ? The 
affair of Alice Plain certainly did 
look very bad ; but was a man so 
ready and brave to assist one whom 
he evidently took to be a poor fallen 
female, the person to wreck a woman 
for his own base pleasure? There 
was a mystery somewhere. But on 
one point Margaret was clear. She 
owed Clinton a debt of thanks for 


what he had that night done, which 
could alone be properly discharged 
in person. She would send him a 
note the very next day, requesting an 
interview. And with that conclusion 
she reached her home. 

The next day Margaret was too ill 
to rise from her bed. The excite- 
ment attendant upon her adventure 
had been too great for her strength. 
The day following she was worse, 
and a long and serious illness was 
the consequence. The note to Clin- 
ton was never written. 

The surprise of Clinton Maint- 
land on discovering who she was he 
had been assisting, may be easily 
imagined. The next day’s Rocket , 
however, explained what had been 
the most incomprehensible feature of 
the affair — the presence of Margaret 
in that exceptional quarter of the 
city. It contained a glowing ac- 
count of the flag presentation to the 
Gordon Seacrist Association, includ- 
ing a most flattering tribute to the 
beauty, grace and admirable self- 
possession of the aristocratic Miss 

Margaret Kortright, of No. 

Street, who had patriotically con- 
sented to represent the donor in the 
most interesting ceremony, and 
whose remarks on the occasion it 
proceeded to quote at length. The 
report, which was the work of Bill 
Travers, had been prepared in anti- 
cipation of the event described, and 
duly forwarded in advance to the 
place of publication ; and, conse- 
quently, w T as unaffected by the fiasco 
that followed. 

As Clinton had heard a report of 
the engagement between Margaret 
and his political opponent, on read- 


144 : 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ing the Rocket’s account, he under- 
stood all he cared to know concern- 
ing the affair. He, however, expect- 
ed some acknowledgment of grati- 
tude from the young lady, who, he 
saw, had recognized him at their 
parting. But as no such acknow- 
ledgment came, he made up his 
mind to dismiss her altogether from 
his thoughts — and so thought about 
her much more frequently than he 
had before. 

As for Gordon, he was immensely 
chagrined at the unfortunate occur- 
rence, and made every apology that 
was possible — which, as his inven- 
tive powers were excellent, embraced 
everything that could be required. 
Margaret’s illness necessarily put a 
stop to all direct communication be- 
tween the lovers ; but Gordon’s soli- 
citude was such that he dutifully 
called every day to inquire after her 
health, and usually staid twice as 
long to explain the political situation 
to Clara as he had been accustomed 
to do when Margaret was able to be 
present. His deprivation, conse- 
quently, was not so great after all. 

In one respect, however, the con- 
sequences to Gordon were serious 
and particularly provoking. Marga- 
ret’s sickness involved a postpone- 
ment of the wedding, which had 
been arranged to follow immediately 
after the election, that the pleasure- 
takings that ordinarily succeed to 
such an event, might be over before 
the newly-made husband would be 
called to enter upon the responsible 
duties of his official station ; for of 
his triumphant election, he enter- 
tained no doubt. That, he declared, 
was already provided for. But now 


the wedding-day was necessarily un- 
certain ; and, in the meanwhile, cer- 
tain obligations, partly growing out of 
the canvass, and partly out of tran- 
sactions at Abel Cummager’s, which 
he h^d relied upon his marriage to 
enable him to take care of, were 
pressing. Altogether, as he declared 
to Bill Travers, it was “confound- 
edly bad.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE MOHICANS. 

What was to be the result of the 
canvass then going forward was even 
yet uncertain — a fact which no one 
understood so well as Barton Sea- 
crist. Tammany, considering the 
disadvantages it had at first labored 
under, had done remarkably well ; 
and its new party rival, in view of its 
opportunities, had managed very bad- 
ly. Had they been the only parties 
in the field, the issue of the contest 
would no longer have been doubtful; 
but they were not the only parties to 
be taken into the calculation. There 
was still another organization from 
which nothing had been heard dur- 
ing the excitement of the canvass ; 
and which was the more formidable 
because of its perfect quietude and 
non-committalism. That was the so- 
ciety of the Mohicans — the society 
of which Abel Cummager was the 
leader. 

Cummager was a moral outlaw. 
Everybody looked upon him, and 
spoke of him, as a bad and dan- 
gerous man. Deliberately, and with 
profoundest calculation, he had set 
himself against society and its most 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


14:5 


sacred laws. He lived and flourished 
by the vices of men. He was the 
proprietor of establishments that were 
constantly sending out corrupting 
streams to permeate and demoralize 
the social mass. The young and 
inexperienced were especially the vic- 
tims of his influence. He won them 
to him by a system of enticements 
that laid the whole community un- 
der contribution. He seemed to de- 
light in seeing how near he could go 
to the perilous edge of legal re- 
straint, and escape the precipice. 

A man so bold and aspiring, and 
with such resources of organization, 
was necessarily a leader. In a city 
like New York the material from 
which he was to form a following 
was most abundant. He soon gath- 
ered about him the worst elements 
of the metropolis. These he gradu- 
ally compacted into a political asso- 
ciation that could be wielded with 
terrible effectiveness in the contests 
which parties often nearly balanced, 
constantly waged against each other. 
It was an army of free lances, un- 
controlled by any principle except 
that of self-interest, untrammelled by 
any allegiance save to its leader, and 
ready to combine with whatever fac- 
tion offered it the highest induce- 
ment for co-operation. 

Such was the Society of the Mo- 
hicans. 

This organization had so far been 
perfectly quiescent, and its leader 
had attended all of Barton Seacrist’s 
dinner gatherings without giving the 
slightest indication of any interest 
in the contest. Yet his assistance 
had become absolutely indispensable. 
The Mohicans, it was now clear, held 


the balance of power, and whichever 
party won the support of its master- 
spirit was assured of victory. 

It was with a pang of the keenest 
severity that Barton Seacrist recog- 
nized the fact just stated. Of all 
men he liked Abel Cummager the 
least, and therefore humored him 
the most. It was true political sa- 
gacity. Friends we have already ; 
but enemies we must win. The men 
were rivals, and therefore enemies. 
But Barton Seacrist’s dislike of Abel 
Cummager had a deeper root than a 
mere unconformity of interest. It 
was a strong and instinctive aversion 
resulting from a radical distrust of 
the man. He never could have been 
so gracious to him had his hate been 
less thoroughly sincere. And now 
this man had to be conciliated — won 
over by something more substantial 
than dinner party courtesies. It 
was, indeed, a bitter task ; but Bar- 
ton Seacrist w r as not one to shrink 
from any undertaking, merely be- 
cause it was disagreeable. 

It was a frightful collection of hu- 
man beings that was gathered at 
Hardlot Hall, the acknowledged 
headquarters of the Mohicans. Low, 
heavy brows and evil visages were 
the prevailing type. The baser ele- 
ments were out in all their strength. 
Each crawling vice, each lawless* 
Godless calling had there its repre- 
sentative. But all present were by 
no means low-browed villains and 
men whose outward looks betokened 
lives of brutal criminality. There 
were among the assembled hundreds 
countenances rich with strong and 
rare intelligence. There were bright, 
smooth faces there that women still 


146 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


might love, and which, perhaps, wo- 
men did love but too fondly. Youth 
had made its abundant contribution, 
and here and there was one whose 
glance or smile, or even frown, of 
softer tinge, gave deeper sadness to 
the vile mosaic. But in all that 
throng there was not one visage to 
be seen, however brave, or young, or 
fair, that did not show the blighting 
brand of some enslaving vice. Bags 
there were, too ; and plenteous signs 
of low, and even wretched life — the 
mingled livery of drunkenness and 
crime — but not alone. Jewels flashed 
and super-fashionable garments sat 
jauntily on shapely forms, and taw- 
dry splendor in a hundred ways 
made darker background of the 
squalid, vulgar mass in which it had 
its setting. It was a terrible array — 
a city’s grand out-pouring of its 
worst and lowest elements — its rank 
and fierce democracy of viciousness 
and crime. 

And yet it was a humorous mob. 
There were those, it was true, who, 
gathered into little knots, and, speak- 
ing in low, smothered voices, glared 
savagely and fearfully about them ; 
but the great body laughed and 
joked and chattered, bandying oaths 
and chaff with loud and generous 
familiarity. There was earnestness, 
too, and here and there a cluster to 
itself was busy with some warm dis- 
cussion. The one great topic, wher- 
ever argument was heard, seemed to 
be the coming election. 

“ It’s my opinion,” said a heavily- 
browed and whiskered man, whose 
very expression was a challenge of 
defiance, “that the man who’s to 
head off old Seacrist hasn’t been 


discovered yit : and won’t be nei- 
ther.” 

“ Who’s that dares talk Tammany 
in this ere crowd ?” angrily exclaimed 
a little red-faced man who came 
bustling and threateningly forward. 

“It’s me that said it, and dares 
say it agin, spite of any man who 
takes Tammany’s money, and then 
goes and works agin Tammany’s 
men.” 

“ It’s a lie,” retorted the little man, 
shaking his fist menacingly at his 
larger and cooler adversary ; but 
keeping himself, nevertheless, at a 
safely respectful distance. 

“ It’s so, Tom Donnelly, and I can 
prove it. I’m not for Tammany agin 
Abel Cummager meself ; but I don’t 
take Tammany’s money — that I 
don’t.” 

“ It’s a lie— a lie — I tell ye, a lie !” 
roared the little man, fast approach- 
ing that point where discretion was 
likely to give way to temper. 

“ Into him, Tom !” 

“I’ll back ye, Mike. Three to 
one !” 

“A ring! a ring! Stand back 
there, can’t ye ?” 

“ It’s a fight ! Fight ! Fight !” 

But all at once the uproar subsid- 
ed. The scene was changed almost 
in an instant. Quarrels, disputa- 
tions, laughter, whisperings stopped 
as by common consent, and all faces 
turned in one direction. The big 
man and the little one who had just 
been about to engage in fierce ren- 
counter, stood shoulder to shoulder, 
forgetful of past differences in their 
newly awakened interest. The grimy, 
fetid vagrant and the airy, perfumed 
fop leaned upon each other in their 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


147 


eagerness to share the new sensa- 
tion'. 

The cause of this sudden trans- 
formation was the appearance upon 
the scene of a new character — a 
large, heavily visaged man, who, 
entering by a small side door, walked 
slowly upon the platform that occu- 
pied a portion of one end of the 
hall. The new-comer needs no fur- 
ther description here, for he was 
Abel Cummager. 

The greeting which this man re- 
ceived was as peculiar as the assem- 
blage from which it came. The 
mingled howls, yells and screams 
with which a menagerie of wild ani- 
mals might be expected to salute a 
favorite keeper, were here repeated 
in all their variations. To ordinary 
ears the horrible roar would have 
been full of terror ; but upon the 
man who inspired it no other im- 
pression was made than that of silent 
pleasure. Without seeming to no- 
tice the din, he quietly seated him- 
self upon the stage, and looked calm- 
ly out upon the boisterous throng 
before him. But something more 
responsive was demanded to satisfy 
the devotion of that assemblage. 
The uproar continued, and, if possi- 
ble, became more and more demon- 
strative. At last the man who was 
the subject of the hideous ovation, 
arose, walked slowly to the front of 
the platform, bowed, and then again 
took his seat. But even this was 
not enough. Calls of “ Cummager !” 
“ Cummager !” amid whoops, screams 
and whistlings, continued with una- 
bated fervor. Again slowly arising, 
the great leader took his stand be- 


fore the audience, and waited for the 
clamor to subside. 

When silence was restored, he 
proceeded to speak in a quick, un- 
impassioned tone — almost as a mas- 
ter might have addressed unruly 
scholars ; but, with all his surface 
impassibility, there was a current of 
clever plausibleness and the deepest 
flattery running through his seem- 
ingly unstudied remarks which 
showed how profound was his knowl- 
edge of that phase of human nature 
with which he had to deal. He dis- 
claimed all political ambition on his 
own account. He wanted no office, 
no emolument, no reward. All he 
had at heart as a member of the 
great Mohican society, was the prop- 
er protection of his “friends” 

He had struck the master key. 
Once more the whole assembly was 
in a tumult, applauding as one man, 
and several minutes went by before 
silence was restored. It was an out- 
burst of spontaneous and sincere en- 
thusiasm that set the multitude to 
roaring — a genuine response to the 
speaker’s words — for every man there 
had faith in what he had said. Ev- 
ery member of that hardened mob 
looked upon him not merely as a 
leader, but as a friend. One and all 
believed that he would be true to 
their class, whatever contingency 
might arise. Their faith in his fidel- 
ity as one of themselves was un- 
bounded. Therein was his power, 
and he failed not to use it. 

When order was once more re- 
stored, which was not until his audi- 
ence had fairly exhausted its powers 
of expression, Cummager in the same 


148 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


direct and quiet way proceeded to 
press home the advantage he had 
secured. A few words sufficed to 
present the claims of the rival par- 
ties between which they would have 
to choose — their merits from the 
Mohican standpoint being so skill- 
fully measured and adjusted as to 
leave almost an exact balance be- 
tween them. Having narrowed the 
proposition down to a point of al- 
most absolute indifference, he sub- 
mitted to his hearers the question of 
which they would support. 

“You are our leader — we follow 
you,” sang out a voice in the midst 
of the throng ; and immediately 
there arose a shout and roar of ap- 
proval that was absolutely irresisti- 
ble. If opposition had existed, it 
would have been lost and drowned 
in that overpowering indorsement. 
No expression could have been more 
emphatic. 

The point for which Abel Cumma- 
ger had been laboring was secured. 
That element which was represented 
in the motley throng that had that 
night gathered in Hardlot Hall, was 
absolutely in his hands. His power 
over it was as perfect, and even 
stronger than it had ever been before. 

Leaving to his subordinates the 
task of amusing the crowd, and car- 
rying out certain arrangements for 
more thorough organization, Abel 
Cummager quietly passed from the 
hall to the street, where he found a 
carriage in waiting. In this he was 
quickly driven to the residence of 
Barton Seacrist. 

No reception could have been more 
gracious than that which the all- 
powerful Mohican met at the hands 


of the Tammany Sachem. Barton 
Seacrist’s manner was courteous al- 
most to servility. That of Abel 
Cummager was reserved, almost de- 
fiant. For some minutes the elder 
of the two men continued, in his pe- 
culiarly affable and condescending 
way, to talk upon indifferent points, 
scarcely eliciting a response, when, 
seeing that he was gaining no ground 
by that line of tactics, without intro- 
duction he turned the conversation 
to the business in hand. He it was 
that had solicited the interview. 

“What do you think, Mr. Cum- 
mager, of the present state of the 
canvass ?” 

“ That Tammany is in danger — of 
annihilation,” was the cool and mea- 
sured response. 

“Hardly that bad, Mr. Cumma- 
ger,” replied Seacrist with a smile 
which it was easy enough to see was 
forced. “ Hardly that bad, I think. 
I admit that a short time ago the 
outlook was indeed threatening. But 
things have greatly changed. The Re- 
form movement has mostly exhaust- 
ed itself. It was a thunder-storm — 
very alarming while it lasted ; but it 
has blown over. The Progression- 
ists are divided. The followers of 
Cinnamon Smooth cannot be turned 
against us. Indeed, I may safely 
say, the majority of them will vote 
with us, and the balance will throw 
their strength away. So, you see, 
Tammany, although in a minori- 
ty, taking the whole vote, is quite 
safe ” 

“ Unless ” 

“ Unless what, Mr. Cummager ?” 

“The Mohicans join the Reform- 
ers.” 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


149 


“ But that — that can hardly be. It 
would be a most unnatural alliance.” 

“ Stranger things have happened 
— stranger things have happened.” 

“Well! well!” resumed Seacrist, 
with his accustomed smile — his cheek 
having momentarily blanched at the 
possibility his companion had sug- 
gested — “ that brings me to the 
point I wished to confer with you 
about. Why cannot Tammany and 
the Mohicans be brought to a friend- 
ly understanding? Both belong to 
the same great party. Both, I am 
confident, have in the main no other 
object than the public good. Can 
you, Mr. Cummager, assign any suf- 
ficient reason why they should not 
co-operate ?” 

“None whatever.” 

“ I am rejoiced to hear you say so. 
The division that has existed be- 
tween the societies has to me long 
been a source of much sorrow. I 
am, for one, willing to make great 
sacrifices to heal it. What, Mr. 
Cummager, do you ask as a condi- 
tion to such agreement in behalf of 
your organization ?” 

“In behalf of my organization — 
nothing,” replied Cummager with an 
emphasis that was startling. “I am 
ready to pledge Tammany the sup- 
port of the Mohicans — I am even 
ready to disband my organization 
that Tammany may have no rival in 
the party, without asking any politi- 
cal equivalent whatever. What I do 
ask may appear so slight a matter 
that you may be surprised when I 
mention it.” 

The puzzled expression on Sea- 
crist’s countenance showed that for 
once he was completely at a loss. 


Cummager went on with quiet deli- 
beration : 

“ You are, doubtless, aware that I 
have had some domestic trouble.” 

“I have much regretted to hear 
it,” Seacrist replied. 

“Mrs. Cummager and myself not 
being compatible in our dispositions, 
I was compelled to institute pro- 
ceedings for divorce. A decree has 
just been entered in my favor.” 

“ Let me congratulate you.” 

“Having of late, by your invita- 
tion, enjoyed much of the society of 
your daughter, you can scarcely have 
failed to observe the intimacy 
that ” 

“What!” exclaimed Barton Sea- 
crist, springing to his feet and glar- 
ing upon his companion with undis- 
guised astonishment and indigna- 
tion, “do you ask the hand of my 
daughter ? — you, Abel Cummager — 
you, who are ” 

“The head of the Society of the 
Mohicans, and at the present time 
master of the political situation. 
Precisely so, Mr. Seacrist. You have 
stated the condition upon which the 
political consolidation you so much 
desire is possible — upon the accept- 
ance or rejection of which depends 
your party’s triumph — or annihila- 
tion.” 

Never was there a more expressive 
tableau than at that moment. Sea- 
crist stood erect, tall, pale, and with 
eyes flashing the hate that had all 
along been in his soul. Cummager 
sat perfectly undisturbed, with a 
composure in his countenance which 
could alone have been the product of 
long years of practice at the gaming 
table. The cat with his paw upon 


150 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


the mouse, could not have shown a 
more absolute consciousness of su- 
periority than he did. 

But the cat, however cruelly play- 
ful his disposition, was not disposed 
to give the mouse much indulgence. 
He pressed the subject. 

“ I see you are somewhat surprised, 
Mr. Seacrist ; but you cannot be in- 
sensible to the advantages I offer 
you, both politically and socially. 
There are plenty of families in New 
York that would be proud of an al- 
liance with Abel Cummager — families 
that were established long before 
yours, Mr. Seacrist, was heard of. ” 

Barton Seacrist winced anew under 
this last thrust, but he was not one 
to be long off his guard. With 
an effort recovering something of his 
accustomed suavity of manner, he 
inquired of his companion whether 
he had introduced the subject under 
discussion to Kate. He was well 
aware that Cummager had not done 
so ; but he wished to avoid the neces- 
sity of committing himself either 
way at the time. 

“Certainly not,” replied Cumma- 
ger. “My regard for parental au- 
thority would not permit.” 

There was a trace of sarcasm in 
his voice, and a faint smile upon his 
features, as the wily Mohican indulged 
this bit of morality. 

“Then I must confer with my 
daughter before giving you an an- 
swer/’ was Seacrist’s reply. 

“Properly so,” responded Cum- 
mager, a slight frown spreading over 
his countenance ; “ but you will re- 
member that the election is near at 
hand. When shall I look for a defi- 
nite answer ?” 


“ To-morrow.” 

And the men separated, Seacrist 
rising and politely bowing his visitor 
from the room ; but his eyes follow- 
ing him with a look of intense, 
though puzzled, malignity. Then, 
once more alone, the old man sank 
down in his chair, and it seemed as 
if the interview had added a dozen 
years to his age. All his stateliness 
and energy were gone. His thin, 
bloodless hands nervously clutched 
the arms of his chair, and his head 
settled slowly and feebly upon his 
breast. 

He was sitting thus when the door 
opened, and in softly entered Kate.' 
Catching the expression of her fa- 
ther’s face, she instantly sprang to 
his side and exclaimed : 

“ Oh, father ! father ! something 
has happened. I know there has. 
What is it?” 

Barton Seacrist made no reply. 

“You have had Abel Cummager 
with you,” Kate went on. “Do you 
know that I have always had a dread 
of that man ? Something has made 
me hate him.” 

Barton Seacrist insensibly groaned 
as he heard these words. Kate had 
sunk on her knees at his feet — a fa- 
vorite position when they were alone 
— her hands clasping his, and her 
eyes looking up earnestly and affec- 
tionately into his face. Any one see- 
ing them at that moment could not 
have helped noticing a strange re- 
semblance, not merely in feature and 
facial outline, but in the weariness 
and hopelessness that was in their 
looks. Equally apparent was the 
affection that existed between them. 
That affection was not to be put 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


151 


off with silence ; and so Barton 
Seacrist told Kate the whole story 
of his interview with Abel Cumma- 
ger. 

“ And is there no hope of political 
success except by yielding to the 
terms of this — this man ?” she asked 
at its conclusion. 

“ I am afraid not,” was her father’s 
reply. 

“ Then I must be his wife.” 

There was not a change of feature ; 
not a variation in the tone of her 
voice ; not a quiver of the lip nor of 
the eye, as Kate announced her reso- 
lution. 

Her father looked at her moment- 
arily in silence ; then, throwing his 
arms about her and pressing her to 
him, he passionately exclaimed : 

“ No, no, no, Kate ! that must not 
be. It is too much to ask — too 
great a sacrifice. We can give up 
Tammany. We can give up poli- 
tics. We will still have each other. 
All that we have been laboring for 
must now be abandoned.” 

“No, father, no!” replied Kate 
with the same absolute composure, 
“It must not be abandoned. The 
sacrifice I have already made for 
our success is greater than that now 
demanded. This is but another drop 
in the cup.” 

And so it was settled. 

To Mademoiselle Cathron’s tender 
of services that night Kate returned 
an emphatic negative. 

“But come to me in the morn- 
ing,” she added, “ I shall need your 
assistance then.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 

THE ELECTION. 

The night before election is one 
on which no politician rests. The 
night before the battle in which 
thousands are to lay down their 
lives, in the feverish anxiety of its 
dread anticipation, is as nothing to 
it. The soldier can sleep, and sleep 
peacefully, although he knows that 
with the morrow comes the horrid 
blast of war ; the shot and shell ; the 
furious charge ; the wounding and 
the death. But who ever heard of 
a politician sleeping on the eve of 
the day that was to decide the all- 
important question whether he or 
some other man was to hold office ? 
Riggletoe aspires to be high-consta- 
ble of the town of Red Jacket — 
perquisites five hundred dollars or 
less — but Riggletoe would regard 
himself as certain of defeat, and de- 
servedly so, should he close his eyes 
the night before the awful day. 
There is always so much to be done 
at that time. There are so many 
people to see, who might go wrong if 
they were not seen just then. There 
are tickets and handbills and docu- 
ments of a dozen sorts to be distri- 
buted, that must be on hand at the 
precise minute. There are canvass- 
ers and challengers and ticket-ped- 
dlers — altogether a most complicated 
machinery — to be set in motion. 
And then there is the enemy to 
watch, and oh, what a task that is ! 
No candidate ever had a strictly ho- 
nest or honorable competitor. ' And, 


152 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


finally, the amount of talking that 
must be done by way of preliminary 
— the giving of directions, the hear- 
ing of reports, the comparing of 
notes, the discussing of probabili- 
ties, the enunciation of opinions 
which the next twenty-four hours 
will shatter or confirm — is some- 
thing wonderful. It is astonishing 
what labor is involved in securing to 
a free people the privilege of select- 
ing their own officials in a perfectly 
fair and unbiased manner. 

Clinton Maintland was no excep- 
tion to the rule which makes watch- 
ers of candidates on the night be- 
fore election. Impelled by a feeling 
of unaccountable restlessness, at a 
late hour he went round to his party 
head-quarters. He found a great 
many people there — a great deal of 
loud and excited talking — a great 
deal of running to and fro — and, ne- 
cessarily, a great deal of uproar and 
confusion. He wanted to make him- 
self useful, and diligently looked 
about for something to employ him- 
self at ; but although others were so 
intensely busy, and there was, neces- 
sarily, much to do, he found it quite 
impossible to get satisfactorily to 
work, or even to comprehend what 
was demanded. If he attempted 
anything, it was only to find himself 
in somebody else’s way, and in the 
end to make matters a great deal 
worse than they were. 

Not so with Tom Sponge. He 
always found something to do, and 
was always on hand at precisely the 
right time to do it. The amount of j 
labor he performed that night was | 
almost incredible. Clinton looked ! 
at him in silent wonder and admira- 

i 


tion, as he flew hither and thither, 
giving an order at this point, dis- 
patching a commission at that, and 
keeping everything and everybody in 
motion about him. And no one 
could have looked at Tom except in 
wonder and admiration. His outfit 
was simply gorgeous. His neck-tie 
had never before been so full nor so 
brilliant, and, as he dashed here and 
there with the long pendants stream- 
ing over his shoulders, he decidedly 
created the impression of an impri- 
soned, but very lively, comet. 

Finding that he was of no possi- 
ble use where he was, Clinton made 
his way into the street, and walked 
aimlessly about until he was weary, 
and then went to his room and to 
bed — but not to sleep. The curse of 
politics, with its penalty of unrest, 
was upon him. His head was in a 
whirl, and he found it impossible to 
keep his body still. His mind was 
busy with the probabilities and pos- 
sibilities of the morrow ; and he fell 
to deliberating, not without some 
natural longings and aspirations, in- 
termingled with apprehensions of 
defeat, upon the career which victory 
might open up before him. And 
then his thoughts took a turn. His 
mind went backward, and one after 
another the leading incidents of his 
life arose before him. He reviewed 
the campaign through which he had 
just passed. He re-read his father’s 
letter criticising his political course. 
He thought of Kate Seacrist, and, 
not without some inward twitches 
and burnings, recalled the brief and 
feverish dream of his soul under the 
spell of her fascination. He re- 
visited the humble bake-shop, wher e 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


153 


he was wont to go in the days of his 
struggle and poverty, and once more 
looked upon the chaste and sadly 
beautiful features of poor Alice 
Plain with her delicate babe upon 
her arm. He laughed as he recalled 
the ludicrous figure of Tom Sponge, 
in threadbare garments, announcing 
himself a wreck, but a gentleman. 
Then he was back in Willowford, 
and all the stirring scenes and aspi- 
rations of his boyhood were before 
him. He heard his father solemnly 
declare his oft-repeated series of po- 
litical opinions, and listened to the 
quaint, but clever, sayings of his un- 
cle, Martin Swartwout. And then, 
as his thoughts went over that por- 
tion of his life, he found himself sit- 
ting, at the close of a summer’s day, 
upon a low stone wall, out beneath 
the shadow of grand old trees, and 
by his side was Margaret Kortright 
— little Margaret — and his arm stole 
round her waist as he told her of his 
plans for coming years, aud his lips 
sought hers in boyish sympathy and 
consolation ; and he remembered 
how, when she had fled half-fright- 
ened by his bold advances, he had 
vowed to himself that he loved her 
then, and that he would love her 
always. And, from this point his 
thoughts again turning future-ward, 
he recalled his subsequent meetings 
with Margaret ; how she had burst 
upon him a vision of amazing beau- 
ty ; how a barrier had mysteriously 
sprung up between them ; and how, 
as his life had failed to run in ac- 
cord with hers, had been its only 
wide departure from the dreams 
which his youth had so fondly che- 


rished. So absorbing became his 
speculations upon the causes and 
the probabilities of this unaccounta- 
ble divergence, that day surprised 
him in the midst of his meditations 
— some of which he found were be- 
coming strangely depressing — and 
he sprang from his bed to drive the 
subject from his mind. 

How was it with the other leading 
actors in our story ? Barton Seacrist 
was busy, as usual. All night long 
he sat in a quiet room, vigilant and 
alert. There was no excitement, no 
confusion where he was. Men came 
and went without noise or demon- 
stration. Grulls, Skipp, Hargate, 
Windsham, Browbeat, Scourge, of 
the Sunday Plague , Cinnamon 
Smooth, all spent a little time with 
him and disappeared. He had never 
been more calm and seemingly confi- 
dent, presenting a most notable con- 
trast to the politicians who were 
elsewhere almost fretting their lives 
away. 

Kate was not far off She, too, 
was quietly and actively employed. 
She was not pale, for Mademoiselle 
Cathron’s ministrations had not been 
rejected ; but her eyes had a hungry 
and wasted look, even more painful 
than they had ever shown before. 
Article after article did she prepare 
for the morning papers — appeals to 
political friends, excoriations of poli- 
tical enemies, directions for harmo- 
nious and efficient political action ; 
and, when these were finished, there 
were a number of little notes in her 
father’s hand writing — only a few 
words each — which she was engaged 
in elaborating and putting into ac- 


154 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ceptable form, until the clear, strong 
light of day was streaming into her 
room. 

As for Gordon Seacrist, he was as 
busy as the rest. Early in the even- 
ing he called at the Bafford residence. 
Margaret was still too ill to see him ; 
but he sent her an affectionate mes- 
sage ; and then remained the better 
part of an hour with Clara, to whom 
he detailed the latest intelligence of 
the campaign. But, of course, time 
was precious, and he hurried away 
to his party headquarters, where he 
asked a number of questions, re- 
lieved himself of sundry valuable 
predictions, and contracted several 
wagers of considerable amount on 
the majority which he was the next 
day to receive. Thence he went the 
round of the principal saloons of his 
acquaintance, playing a few billiards 
and spending considerable money 
just to gratify people who had votes; 
and then, having fallen in with Bill 
Travers and a few other choice 
spirits, he made his way in their 
company to Abel Cummager’s, where 
the next morning found him. 

There was a strange quietness per- 
vading the great city on the morning 
of the election. There was not th6 
same opening up of broad, glittering 
fronts on the main avenues ; not the 
usual rush to business, nor the con- 
stant roll of wheels, and the endless 
patter of hurrying feet. The few 
pedestrians that were early abroad 
glided suspiciously along, or, stop- 
ping to exchange quick, significant 
words in low voices, speedily van- 
ished away. Occasionally there was 
a sharp clatter of hoofs and wheels, 
as a carriage went rattling by, bear- 


ing either a belated party leader or 
a messenger with important dispatch- 
es to some distant post, and then 
all again was the quiet of expectancy. 

But while the body of the city was 
thus undemonstrative, there were 
localities where its vital force had 
broken out with even more than its 
accustomed intensity. Around the 
different polling-places were congre- 
gated small, but rapidly growing 
clusters of deeply interested men, 
many of whose members, holding 
bundles of paper slips in their hands, 
and gesticulating violently, were evi- 
dently bent upon the work of elec- 
tioneering. More and more grew 
and spread these assemblages until 
they flowed around the nearest street 
corners, and the various canvassing 
agents, instead of having each a man 
or two by the button-hole, became 
the centres of excited throngs 
from which issued not infrequently 
the voices of partisans in warm and 
angry disputation. Other sounds, 
too, began to be heard. Cheers 
arose upon the air as candidates ap- 
peared upon the scene, and strains 
of music came at first faintly, and 
then dashingly, as processions began 
to move up and down the streets 
with banners and other devices ap- 
pealing to the people for party fa- 
vorites. Then windows that had 
before been dark, blossomed out with 
rosy faces ; the sidewalks became 
alive with shouting boys ; men 
went hurrying to and fro ; and the 
great city was at last awake to the 
consciousness of the most exciting 
day in all the year — that of a popular 
election. 

The People’s Anti-Tammany and 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


155 


Universal Reform Party, depending 
mainly upon the solid reason of the 
people, and having but little money 
to expend in electioneering agencies, 
had fewer devices to attract public 
attention than its older and richer 
adversary. Still it was not unrepre- 
sented. Among the instrumentalities 
it had employed to advertise its ex- 
istence and its purposes, was an im- 
mense wagon drawn by half a dozen 
powerful horses, on which was sta- 
tioned a band of music, and around 
which was a broad canvas display- 
ing such inscriptions as, “ Honesty vs. 
Tammany — the People are the Jury 
“The many should rule — not the 
few “ Down with the Ring,” and 
the like ; while over all, on an ele- 
vated platform, was a man in Conti- 
nental attire, bearing aloft a flag 
upon whose folds were the words, 
“ Reform and Victory.” For this 
most ingenious contrivance — this 
stump speech on wheels — the Peo- 
ple’s Anti-Tammany and Universal 
Reform Party was indebted to the 
genius of Tom Sponge, who not 
only superintended its preparation, 
but saw it set out upon its mission 
of public enlightenment with emo- 
tions of no little pride and satisfac- 
tion. 

The first reports brought to the 
People’s Anti-Tammany and Univer- 
sal Reform headquarters were of the 
most cheering character. The sup- 
porters of the new movement were 
turning out in unexpected strength. 
Many men were voting its ticket, 
who had not voted before for years. 
The truth was, that the better por- 
tion of the community, which was 
uninfluenced by popular demonstra- 


tions, had become so distrustful of 
Tammany as to be ready to join any 
movement against it. It was this 
element which had been almost lost 
sight of by politicians on both sides, 
that was suddenly showing its 
strength. Sponge who, as chairman 
of the new party’s chief committee, 
in his grandest outfit, was early at 
his post — in fact he had not left it 
except to bestow some attention on 
his wardrobe and snatch a bite of 
breakfast — was almost in ecstasies. 
He fairly danced with joy as report 
after report of the same uniformly fa- 
vorable character continued to arrive. 
Higher and higher rose his spirits, 
until a piece of intelligence was 
whispered in his ear that at first took 
away his breath, then caused him to 
turn almost as white as the spotless 
linen he was wearing, and then seize 
his hat and rush madly from the 
roomi 

The same information which 
brought such joy to the bosoms of 
Sponge and his co-workers, carried 
equal consternation to the camp of 
the enemy. The Tammany head- 
quarters was in confusion. But 
when Skipp, and Grulls, and Wind- 
sham, and a score of other leaders 
sought Barton Seacrist, they found 
him perfectly undisturbed and confi- 
dent. Nevertheless, no sooner were 
they out of his presence, than he 
greeted Abel Cummager, who quietly 
entered, with a look of undisguised 
anxiety. Earnest, although brief, 
was the conversation that ensued be- 
tween the great leaders. 

“There is nothing to be lost by 
that course,” said Seacrist, after the 
two had conversed for a time, “ and 


156 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


everything to be gained. It is ruin 
to fail at all ; while, if we succeed, 
success makes all right. The venture 
must be made.” 

“ As you say,” was the laconic re- 

ply- 

The result of the interview was 
that the Mohicans were soon at 
work. 

The developments that followed 
will account for Sponge’s agitation ; 
but why he should have so hurriedly 
left the room, and gone racing down 
the street, will require a word or two 
of explanation. 

Violence on election day had noth- 
ing about it very extraordinary. That 
it should, in such an emergency as 
had then arisen, be resorted to by 
the opposition, was nothing more 
than Sponge, with his previous expe- 
rience in New York politics, had sus- 
pected. Indeed, he had meditated 
a proposition for doing the same 
thing, and had only abandoned the 
idea because of pecuniary inability 
to carry it out. Nevertheless some 
provision had been made for the 
contingency that had now arisen. 

The Waterbr ashes were a fire com- 
pany of clearly established reputa- 
tion. Their battles — not against the 
elements only — were matter of uni- 
versal notoriety. Generally, they 
had been in the employ of the other 
side ; but, on this occasion, by some 
unaccountable oversight, they had 
been neglected by Tammany. Na- 
turally indignant by reason of such 
unhandsome treatment, they had 
been quite ready to negotiate with 
Sponge’s party, and the result was a 
highly satisfactory arrangement for 
their services — purely with a view to 


defensive operations. It was to put 
himself in communication with these 
champions of an honest ballot, that 
Sponge started in such haste when 
apprised that Tammany’s new allies 
were taking forcible possession of 
the polls. 

But if Sponge’s wrath had been 
great by reason of the startling in- 
telligence he had received of the 
enemy’s operations, it was as noth- 
ing to the indignation that was ex- 
cited in his bosom by a spectacle 
that, as he speeded along the street, 
suddenly burst upon his vision. The 
sight that was so harrowing, was 
that of his car, which he had sent 
forth with so much satisfaction, in 
the hands of the Philistines. The 
Gordon Seacrist Association, in obe- 
dience to the mysteriously communi- 
cated command that brought all such 
organizations into the field, in mov- 
ing to the point where its services 
were required, had accidentally en- 
countered Sponge’s wagon peace- 
fully proceeding in the midst of a 
crowd of admiring boys and child- 
ren, on its mission of reform. To 
take possession of it was the work of 
an instant. The Anti-Tammany in- 
scriptions were unceremoniously torn 
off ; the musicians were tumbled 
from their seats, and the banner of 
“ Reform and Victory,” being brought 
down from its rightful elevation, was 
fastened to the wagon’s tail, that it 
might drag in the dust ; while a 
brawny butcher-boy, mounting to 
the late standard-bearer’s place, dis- 
played the flag of the Gordon Sea- 
crist Association — that with the in- 
scription of “ Vox populi vox del ,” 
and which Margaret Kortright was 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


157 


to have presented. At the same 
time, seizing the captured instru- 
ments of the routed musicians, an 
equal number of the victors mount- 
ed to their places, and making up in 
power what they lacked in skill, be- 
gan to blow with all their might. 
Thus completely victorious, and with 
the captured chariot in their midst, 
the Association was moving uproar- 
iously forward as Sponge, in at- 
tempting to cross the street, found 
himself cut off by their procession. 

Luckily he was not recognized, 
and, disentangling himself as speed- 
ily as possible, he hurried on to the 
quarters of the Waterbrashes. These 
he found just setting out to a fire 
that was not far off ; but a very lit- 
tle persuasion induced them to 
change their route, and, leaving the 
fiery elements to their own course 
for a time, they started, engine and 
all, in pursuit of the exultant Asso- 
ciationists. 

Before they could come up to 
them, the enemy had reached the 
first voting-place on their line of 
march, and there, having brushed 
away the assembled citizens who 
were peacefully exercising a free- 
man’s privilege, they had taken pos- 
session of the poll, and, notwith- 
standing they had once on that day 
already performed that duty, were a 
second time busy passing in their 
ballots. So intent were they upon 
the work in which they were engaged, 
that the Waterbrashes had time to 
approach, make a connection with a 
convenient hydrant, and open fire — 
or rather, water — before their pre- 
sence was even suspected. The first 
to fall was the butcher boy with the 


flag, who, while performing a jig 
upon his lofty platform, being over- 
whelmed by an unexpected deluge, 
tumbled headlong with his banner 
to the dust ; and, at the same time, 
several streams of cold water de- 
scended among the patriots crowd- 
ing round the open polling window, 
through which one of the currents 
entering, swept the persons and 
faces of the election judges, pro- 
ducing indescribable dampness and 
consternation within. 

Completely taken by surprise, the 
Associationists were necessarily un- 
der the greatest disadvantage. Fire 
they might have withstood ; but wa- 
ter was an element to which they 
were totally unused. Hence it is no 
wonder that they soon fell back in 
great confusion. Still they were not 
the men to yield without a struggle. 
Gathering stones, and such other 
missiles as they could lay hands on, 
they opened a scattering fusillade ; 
but, one after another, with cease- 
less streams of dirty water squirting 
in their faces, they were put hors de 
combat. On moved the resistless 
Waterbrashes, led by half a score of 
brawny nozzlemen, and in a very 
few minutes the Gordon Seacrist As- 
sociation was washed from the field, 
its banner was captured, Sponge’s 
car was recovered, and a brilliant 
victory for reform and honest voting 
was achieved. 

What might have been the effect 
upon the political fortunes of the 
day, had the victorious Waterbrash- 
es pursued their conquering career, 
it is now quite impossible to tell. 
Unfortunately, in the very moment 
of their victory they were deprived 


158 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


of a directing head. Sponge, car- 
ried away by enthusiasm as he saw 
how the tide of battle was flowing, 
incautiously ventured so far in ad- 
vance of his own forces that a couple 
of the enemy, seeing his exposed 
condition, suddenly seized upon him 
and began to drag him away. But 
Tom was not the man to yield with- 
out a battle. He resisted, and re- 
sisted desperately. He cried aloud, 
too, and doubtless would have been 
discovered and rescued, had not a 
nozzle-man, ignorant of his identity, 
at that moment turned his battery 
upon the struggling group. Any- 
thing like recognition was then im- 
possible. In the mud, and in the 
midst of a blinding storm of water 
and clay, rolled and tumbled the 
three men, sometimes Tom on top, 
and sometimes his adversaries. It 
was all in vain he fought. Com- 
pelled to succumb at last to superior 
force, Tom was dragged away in 
triumph ; and oh, what a figure he 
presented ! His clothes were in rags, 
and every part of his person was 
drenched and crusted with mire. 

Being carried round a corner, to a 
point where the storm of mud and 
water could not reach them, Tom 
found himself surrounded by his en- 
emies, who immediately proceeded 
to sit in court martial on his case. 
They had already decided “ to put a 
head on him,” and were about to 
carry that mysterious sentence into 
execution, when relief came in an 
unexpected form. 

The police, who had been out of 
sight during all the trouble, at this 
point came charging up, and Tom’s 
captors took to their heels, leaving 


him a second time to become a pris- 
oner — this time in the hands of the 
officers of the law, who marched him 
off as a rioter to the lock-up, and 
there kept him until the day was 
over — and lost. 

Nor was Tom the only sufferer. 
The leading Waterbrashes were, like- 
wise, arrested upon the charge of 
interference with the election — al- 
though none of the members of the 
Gordon Seacrist Association were 
ever brought to account — and their 
organization, on account of their 
share in that day’s proceedings, was 
formally condemned and dissolved. 

But it was not only at one point 
where there had been disturbance. 
All over the city men of brutal bear- 
ing appeared at the polls, and, meet- 
ing with no effectual resistance from 
the police, proceeded to overawe the 
peaceable citizens who were exercis- 
ing their lawful rights. A panic en- 
sued. Respectable men fled before 
the mob, and, the polls at many 
points falling into the hands of riot- 
ers, and there being but one compa- 
ny of Waterbrashes, Tammany car- 
ried the day by an overwhelming 
vote. 

All this, of course, gave rise to a 
vast deal of talk and scandal. An in- 
dignation meeting of the abused and 
disappointed ones was held ; and on 
the same night there was a dinner- 
party at Barton Seacrist’s, at which 
were Scourge, of the Sunday Plague , 
and Senator Bloom, and Browbeat 
and Striker, and a great many other 
enthusiastic individuals, and at 
which Windsham was unusually hap- 
py ijn his remarks, rejoicing over the 
great and glorious victory. The 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


159 


election, however, was over, and be- 
fore a week had gone round, the 
public thought and cared no more 
about it than if it had been an affair 
of the preceding century. 

But Tammany’s triumph was not 
universal. 

Clinton Maintland, disgusted at 
the scenes of lawlessness and vio- 
lence he had witnessed, and, conclud- 
ing that all was lost, had gone to his 
room ; and, being weary and sore 
with labor and watching, had early 
retired to his couch. He had barely 
got to sleep, however, when he was 
awakened by an unprecedented up- 
roar. Springing from his bed under 
the impression that the house was 
on fire, he threw open the door of 
his room, when in rushed Tom 
Sponge, who, catching Clinton in his 
arms, began to drag him about the 
room, all in his night garments as he 
was, dancing and capering like one 
possessed. 

“It’s all right! — all right!” ex- 
claimed that erratic individual, when 
Clinton had at last prevailed upon 
him to offer some explanation of his 
conduct. 

“What is all right — the People’s 
Anti-Tammany and Universal Reform 
Party ?” asked Clinton. 

“Oh, no,” said Tom, with the 
slightest trace of disappointment in 
his tone. “ Not that ; for it is dead. 
But who cares, since you are. elect- 
ed ?” And Tom, once more catching 
Clinton in his arms, went off in an- 
other dance about the room. 

It was even so. Clinton was elect- 
ed — and by just Five Hundred Ma- 
jority. 

The Gordon Seacrist Association, 


to which had been assigned the duty 
of taking care of its patron’s inter- 
ests in the district in which he was a 
candidate, had been so thoroughly 
demoralized by its defeat at the 
hands of the Waterbrashes as to be 
totally unequal to the task. In fact 
it was for that day no more seen nor 
heard of. Hence the result above 
indicated. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH. 

♦ 

In dealing with the fortunes of 
politics and politicians, the writer 
has for a time quite lost sight of one 
of the parties to his story, of whom, 
he is confident, the reader would 
willingly know more. The case of 
Alice Plain, as will be recollected, 
had been confided to the hands oi 
the gentlemanly wreck and vagabond, 
Tom Sponge ; and however unsuit- 
able they might appear for such a 
charge, it could not have been given 
to more willing ones. Being but 
flesh and blood, it is not at all strange 
that Tom had come to take a deeper 
interest in his client even than strict 
professional duty required. 

The case was one that occasioned 
him a great deal of embarrassment. 
His duty was to find the lady’s hus- 
band, and take such steps as would 
bring him back to his wife ; but that, 
as may readily be surmised, was the 
very thing which Tom at heart did 
not desire to have done. In the 
most delicate manner conceivable he 
had suggested to his client that she 
was entitled to a divorce ; but the 


160 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


information entirely failed to produce 
the desired effect. Alice had aband- 
oned home and friends for the man 
she called * ‘ husband,” and her love 
was not of the kind to be dismissed 
at will. Tom’s heart quite sank with- 
in him as he discovered how true 
hers was to its lawful lord. 

His duty was clear, and, finding 
that the attainment of his inclination 
was out of the question, he bravely 
made up his mind — not without a 
struggle — to do it. The case, how- 
ever, was full of difficulties. Alice 
herself could render very little as- 
sistance. She had only knovfn her 
husband a short time before their 
marriage ; he had previously told 
her nothing of his antecedents, and 
had subsequently given her very little 
information concerning his business, 
his haunts, or his friends. It was 
even probable that he had concealed 
his true name. The only evidence 
she possessed of being a wife was 
her marriage certificate, which, 
thanks to Tom’s ingenuity, was safe 
from destruction. 

The first step, Tom’s sagacity told 
him, was to find the clergyman who 
had performed the ceremony, and 
ascertain what he knew about the 
matter. It might be all important 
to prove by him the identity of the 
husband, were he, on being discov- 
ered, to deny his share in the busi- 
ness, as was likely to be the case. 
But here a difficulty arose. On visit- 
ing the place where he had lived, as 
Tom and Alice did together, it was 
ascertained that the clergyman had 
gone away, and the report was that 
he was dead, thus fulfilling Gordon 
Seacrist’s boast. “ What did he die 


of?” One answered small-pox, an- 
other fever, and a third apoplexy. 
“He’s not dead at all,” said Tom, 
and so it proved ; for, on going to 
the place to which he had removed, 
he was found alive and well. 

But here there was another trouble. 
Alice had eloped with her husband, 
and had been hastily married by a 
total stranger. The man recognized 
his own certificate ; but doubted 
whether he should again know the 
parties, were he to see them. “ Oh, 
yes, you would,” said Tom, “ and I 
will prove it. ” 

“Where was the ceremony per- 
formed?” he asked. 

“ In the church,” was the clergy- 
man’s reply. 

“ Then place yourself at the altar, 
and the same parties will again ap- 
pear before you.” 

With the foolish fondness usual to 
her sex in such matters, Alice had, 
through all her destitution, retained 
the dress, although but a plain tra- 
velling suit, in which she had been 
married. By Tom’s direction on 
this occasion she had taken it with 
her. Arrayed once more in her sim- 
ple wedding robe — it was with a 
sinking heart she put it on — and 
Tom in his most stunning suit, al- 
most as much depressed because it 
was not to a real ceremony he was 
going — the two, entering the church, 
walked slowly down the aisle, as any 
loving couple meditating matrimony 
might have done. The minister, to- 
tally uninformed as to who they 
were — for Tom had not even dis- 
closed his identity — awaited their 
approach. Closely did he scan their 
features as they stood before him. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY 


161 


At last lie gravely shook his head. 

“ This is the lady I married,” he 
remarked. “ But you, sir,’’ address- 
ing Tom, “are not the man. The 
one to whom I united this woman 
was a younger and much handsomer 
person. The whole transaction is 
now clear before me.” 

Tom at first colored fearfully at 
this uncomplimentary allusion to his 
looks ; for his personal appearance 
was his greatest weakness. But even 
this feeling soon gave way to exulta- 
tion at the success of his ruse. 

“ Then you would know the par- 
ties were they again to appear be- 
fore you under the same circum- 
stances ?” 

“ I certainly should.” 

The first point had been made ; 
but still the greatest perplexity re- 
mained, which was to find the man. 

Had he ever given his wife any 
photograph or other likeness of him- 
self? 

No, never, although she had often 
asked him for one. 

“ Which doesn’t prove that he 
never had one taken for somebody 
else — for his mother, his sister, or 
his aunt,” Tom hastily added, as he 
saw the look of pain his first words 
occasioned. 

Then began a search through the 
photograph establishments of New 
York. Day after day did the two 
walk up and down the streets, visit- 
ing gallery after gallery, in the hope 
that something might be found that 
would serve as a clue to the missing 
man, Alice necessarily having to go 
along, as her recollection was the one 
to be consulted. 

These walks were all well enough 


in a business way ; but to Tom they 
meant a great deal more. He really 
did not wish to find the one of whom 
they were in pursuit. Nothing would 
have satisfied him so well as to learn 
that he was dead and buried. But 
they gave him what was inexpress- 
ibly delightful — Alice’s companion- 
ship. Since her restoration to health 
he had not enjoyed near as much of 
her society as he desired ; nor could 
he do so without a disregard of deli- 
cacy of which he would not be guilty 
for any consideration. She was an- 
other man’s wife ; and, although 
widowed by a husband’s disloyalty, 
still true to her own obligation and 
to his memory. Tom felt that under 
such circumstances he could not in- 
trude without becoming apology ; 
and these long rambles gave him the 
very opportunity he longed for. 
Although constantly apprehensive, 
while in her company, lest some dis- 
covery would be made that would 
take her away altogether from him- 
self, he experienced a real sense of 
enjoyment ; and when wearied with 
over-exertion — for she was not yet 
strong — she would lean confidingly 
upon him for support, he was more 
than happy. 

Thus did day after day, with their 
accustomed walks and searches, go 
by, without bringing anything that 
was even suggestive to light, and 
Tom was growing less and less ner- 
vous for the result, but more and 
more fatally entangled by his speech- 
less passion. Then came the politi- 
cal canvass in which he had figured 
so conspicuously, and which for a 
time put a stop to the rambles he en- 
joyed so much ; for Tom was one of 


162 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


those impulsive creatures, who, giv- 
ing their whole soul and might to 
what they undertake, can do only 
one thing at a time. But the elec- 
tion over, he returned like a hungry 
man to the old repast, and the long 
walks and the visits to the galleries 
were resumed — not, however, until 
he had once more delicately suggest- 
ed the feasibility of a divorce, and 
had been met with a response no 
more encouraging than before. 

In one of their accustomed strolls 
the husband-hunters had entered a 
fashionable photographic establish- 
ment, and were leisurely looking 
about them, when the attendant in 
charge, ambitious to exhibit the 
claims of the shop, held up before 
Alice a very richly mounted and 
jewelled locket, and began to expa- 
tiate upon its costly and exquisite 
workmanship. 

“ Nice, izzn’t it ? An engagement 
present — young man going to be 
married soon — to a great heiress — 
altogether an upper-crust affair — 
right good looking, too, izzn’t he V” 

And with that the exhibitor, whose 
tongue had thus been running on, 
touched a spring and held up the 
miniature disclosed to the eyes of 
the visitor. 

Alice gave one glance at the Coun- 
tenance before her, and uttered a 
scream. She was looking on the 
features of her own husband. 

Tom, who had been glancing over 
some pictures in another part of the 
room, rushed to the spot, and snatch- 
ing the costly gem from the hand of 
the astonished shopman, fixed his 
eye upon the likeness exposed. He 
was almost as much startled as his 


companion upon recognizing the fea- 
tures of Gordon Seacrist, with 
which he had become quite familiar 
during the political campaign just 
over. However, quickly regaining 
his presence of mind, he invented a 
plausible story about the resemblance 
between the face in the locket and 
that of some valued friend — for Tom 
was not above a slight deviation 
from the truth in an emergency — 
and so managed to elicit from the 
merchant all the particulars which 
confidential gossip gave of Gordon’s 
matrimonial enterprise, including the 
name, residence, connections and 
supposed pecuniary attractions of 
the lady, who, as the reader knows, 
was Margaret Kortright. 

Then hurrying away his compan- 
ion, who wars beginning to exhibit 
signs of hysterical agitation, and 
confiding her to the charge of good 
Mrs. Barrett, Tom lost no time in 
seeking Clinton Maintland, and com- 
municating to him in full the as- 
tounding discovery he had made. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AFTER THE ELECTION. 

The result of the political battle 
that has been described, was that 
Tammany was stronger than ever. 
A 7 s for the People’s Anti-Tammany 
and Universal Reform party, it was 
never heard of more. But the tri- 
umph of the victor w T as by no means 
unalloyed. The election of Clinton 
Maintland was a most serious draw- 
back. To Barton Seacrist it was 
occasion not merely of vexation, but 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


163 


of alarm. He saw in it the most im- 
minent peril to all the schemes for 
which he had been laboring, and 
which the victory of his party other- 
wise had secured. He was aware 
that Clinton understood all his plans 
and aims, and with him in the legis- 
lative body, to which he looked for 
their realization, it was scarcely pos- 
sible that they could be carried into 
effect. He knew, too, that there was 
no longer a hope of bringing Clin- 
ton over to his interest. Kate had 
failed to accomplish it before the 
election ; and now even Kate’s in- 
fluence, by reason of her engage- 
ment to Abel Cummager whose co- 
operation had become essential, was 
out of the question. What was to 
be done ? Of one thing Barton 
Seacrist felt assured. Clinton Maint- 
land must be prevented from taking 
his seat in the body to which he had 
been chosen — at least until such time 
as the designs of the great Tamma- 
ny leader should be consummated. 

Not that Barton Seacrist gave ex- 
pression to any such feeling by either 
word or look. No man could have, 
apparently, been so well satisfied 
with the result. His countenance 
wore a smile of perfect tranquillity; 
and, in referring to Clinton, his lan- 
guage was invariably full of respect 
and kindness. 

As for Gordon Seacrist, his cha- 
grin was excessive. Margaret Kort- 
right was still too ill to listen to his 
explanations ; but to Clara Bafford, 
who fully sympathized with him in 
his trial, he poured out the whole 
story of the wrongs to which he had 
been made a victim. But he did 
not content himself merely with 


complaints. By the advice of politi- 
cal friends he had notice duly served 
upon Clinton of his purpose to con- 
test the election — the ground of ac- 
tion being the proceedings of the 
Waterbrashes, who were alleged to 
have acted immediately under the 
direction of Clinton, through his 
agent, Tom Sponge, in driving Gor- 
don’s honest and legal supporters 
from the polls. The whole commu- 
nity was soon talking of the great 
case of Seacrist vs. Maintland. 

But Gordon had other causes of 
vexation. By the untimely illness of 
Margaret Kortright, he had been 
deprived of certain material assist- 
ance he had confidently relied upon 
seeming through his marriage ; his 
luck at Abel Cummager’s had been 
unusually bad ; his father, the elec- 
tion being over, and all danger from 
hurtful revelations consequently past, 
was not disposed to be remarkably 
liberal ; and more irritating than all 
else, Bill Travers and other boon 
companions, who had been dissipat- 
ing upon his bounty, began to treat 
him with actual indifference on ac- 
count of his embarrassment. He 
had but one unfailing consolation, 
and that was the society of Clara 
Bafford, who was devoted through 
every adversity. He, consequently, 
gave more and more of his time to 
her company. 

As for Clinton Maintland, he sud- 
denly found himself a lion of the 
very first magnitude. By many he 
was hailed as “ the coming man, ’ 
and testimonials of the most extra- 
vagant description began to pour in 
upon him. The public journals took 
up his “ position ” on several leading 


FfVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


m 

questions, and discussed it with 
much earnestness ; but, as usual, ar- 
rived at totally different conclusions 
— all being equally wide of the 
mark ; for on the majority of public 
questions he had no position. The 
pictorial newspapers gave portraits 
of him, each after a likeness by some 
distinguished artist, and vouched for 
as the only correct one, but which 
would generally have answered as 
well for almost any other man. Half 
a dozen biographical sketches were 
published, all highly complimentary, 
but respectively assigning him an 
ancestry that was Scotch, Dutch, 
English, French, Italian and Irish. 
Finally the enthusiasm his success 
inspired culminated in the tender of 
a public dinner — the very flattering 
invitation being signed by many of 
the sort that have “ axes to grind” — 
and which the writer is sorrowfully 
compelled to acknowledge that his 
hero accepted. The truth is, that 
Clinton’s head was partially turned by 
his rare good fortune. He really be- 
gan to believe that he enjoyed a pop- 
ularity which was the result of some 
merit that the public had discovered 
sooner than its possessor had. He 
failed to consider upon what slight- 
est of accidents mere success often 
depends ; but then he was young 
and inexperienced — and human. 

The dinner was a great success ; 
but the writer declines making a re- 
cord of its utterances for three rea- 
sons. First, because the declara- 
tions of such gatherings are always 
substantially the same ; second, be- 
cause the testimony which all ova- 
tions of that description furnish is, 
that the best man is invariably the 


successful man ; and third, because a 
faithful report of all that was said 
and done on the occasion, in connec- 
tion with what remains to be re- 
corded of the treatment Clinton was 
soon to experience at the hands of 
some of his then most ardent ad- 
mirers, would be an exhibit little 
creditable to our common human na- 
ture. Further, concerning the af- 
fair, it is enough to say that Tom 
Sponge was present in his most ela- 
borate make-up, and that he enjoyed 
it immensely. 

But Clinton’s dreams were not with- 
out their shadow. He could not ban- 
ish memory ; and, in the midst of his 
triumphs, especially when a suspicion 
of the insincerity of those who were 
lavishing their flatteries upon him 
would steal into his thoughts, his re- 
collection would go back to the time 
when, as a boy, he had promised 
himself the chief enjoyment of man’s 
success in sharing it with another. 
He would then sadly miss the help 
of a true and pure heart’s compan- 
ionship, such as his imagination had 
portrayed, but which his experience 
had totally failed to discover. His 
banished passion for Kate Seacrist, 
like an unwholesome stimulant, had 
only made his soul’s thirst the great- 
er. At such moments he could not 
help saying to himself, “Oh, that 
Margaret had been the one !” 

Then he would reproach himself 
for his weakness, and pride would 
come to his aid. Had not Margaret 
treated him with an unkindness that 
amounted to positive discourtesy — 
the rich and haughty beauty? he 
would ask himself. Nay, more ; was 
she not the affianced bride of his 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


165 


rival and his enemy — a man for 
whom he felt the utmost contempt 
on account of his acknowledged un- 
worthiness — choosing to bestow on 
him the love of which he would only 
have been too proud. Sternly would 
he arm his heart against her, and 
then— and then the battle would be 
sharper than before. 

Clinton in time undoubtedly would 
have conquered the fancy that was 
vexing him, supplanting it, most 
probably, with another that had a 
more substantial foundation, had 
matters gone on as they were. But 
just then came the startling disclos- 
ure which Tom Sponge had brought 
to light. Even Clinton was surprised 
to find how he was affected by it. 
His pride was gone in an instant. 
He forgot the discourtesy by which 
he had been aggrieved. The woman 
in whom he was interested — his boy- 
hood’s companion — was about to be 
made the victim of another’s villainy 
— the innocent participant in a crime 
against the law of the land. It was 
no longer a vague and general senti- 
ment, half love and half misanthro- 
py, that inclined him to action ; but 
a strong sense of duty. He felt that 
he would not be a true man if he did 
not interfere. 

But how was he to interfere ? The 
woman in whose behalf he was called 
upon to act had, by her own decision, 
built up a wall between them which 
his pride would not permit him to 
scale. She had in the most effectual 
manner interdicted all communica- 
tion. He thought of an anonymous 
statement of the facts he had learned, 
but immediately rejected the sugges- 
tion as unmanly and unworthy, be- 


sides most probably ineffectual. In 
his dilemma he finally concluded to 
consult Tom Sponge, of whose inge- 
nuity he was beginning to entertain 
a by no means indifferent opinion. 
Accordingly Tom was taken into his 
confidence ; but with a result of 
which he had no anticipation. The 
effect was at once to open up the 
fountain of his employee’s hidden 
sorrow, with a full revelation of his 
love for a woman who was not only 
another man’s wife, but was resolved 
to remain such in spite of all his at- 
tractions and persuasions. Most lu- 
gubriously did he present the hard- 
ship of both his own case and that 
of his companion. 

“ It’s marvellous,” he declared, 
“ what luck some men have in such 
matters. Here’s a man who has not 
only married the woman I want, but 
is going to marry the woman you 
want. Now, I say, that’s not fair.” 

“It’s hardly equitable, I admit,” 
replied Clinton, laughing in spite of 
the gravity of the subject. “But 
now the question is, what are we to 
do to circumvent this man ?” 

“I have it,” said Tom, leaping to 
his feet, “the very thing. I’ll meet 
him, quarrel with him, insult him, 
shoot him, kill him, trample on him 
and Tom went through the opera- 
tions he described, handling the im- 
aginary pistol and dancing up and 
down as energetically and vindictive- 
ly as if he had the offensive indivi- 
dual before him and under him at 
that very moment. 

“No, no,” replied Clinton, who 
saw that Tom was momentarily at 
least in earnest, “ that won’t answer. 
It would be murder, and that would 


166 


FIVE HUNDEED MAJOEITY. 


make an end of you as well as of 
him.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Tom, gloomily. 
“ I’m only a wreck, anyhow. It 
makes no difference whether I live 
or die. She doesn’t care for me.” 

And the tears, all the bravado hav- 
ing suddenly gone out of him, 
were running down the poor fellow’s 
cheeks. 

“ Not so bad as that,” responded 
Clinton, gaily, and taking Tom by 
the hand ; for he really sympathized 
with his manifest sorrow. “ Cheer 
up, for we can’t spare you yet. 
There’s a battle to be fought, and 
you are worth a great many dead 
men, as you have already proved.” 
And in less than five minutes’ time 
the mercurial fellow’s spirits were up 
to the highest point. 

The problem that seemed so 
difficult, was about to be solved 
N in a way that was then little antici- 
pated. 

Before the conversation just re- 
ferred to was ended, a messenger 
entered, and, having handed Clinton 
a note in an envelope, immediately 
disappeared. 

The note, which seemed to be in 
a woman’s handwriting, was as fol- 
lows : 

Clinton Maintland, Esq.: 

Be on north side of Fulton Street, be- 
tween William and Pearl, to-night, at eight 
o’clock. Follow dark figure, closely veiled, 
to place of conference. There is injustice 
to explain and counsel to ask. 

Your Friend. 

That was all. 

In an instant Clinton had formed 
his conclusion. The note was from 


Margaret Kortright. The “injus- 
tice ” referred to was involved in her 
singular conduct toward himself, and 
the “counsel” to be asked, related 
to some intimation she had received 
concerning Gordon Seacrist’s misbe- 
havior. Whom could she more pro- 
perly consult than her old playmate 
and neighbor, to whom she had once 
before made application? That she 
should have asked a night meeting, 
upon a public street, would have ap- 
peared unaccountable had he not 
once already met her in a more ex- 
ceptionable place, and the circum- 
stances of the case been such as 
would preclude either party from 
publicly visiting the other. A street- 
meeting, if ever known to others, 
might appear accidental. At all 
events his opinion was made up and 
his resolution formed. He would 
obey the summons. 

Nevertheless, as Tom was present, 
he handed him the paper, and asked 
his advice. 

“ An acquaintance, ugh ! Any 
little affaire d’ amour?’ asked Tom, 
slyly scrutinizing his companion’s 
face. 

“ None,” answered Clinton, em- 
phatically^. 

“ Then have nothing to do with 
it,” said Tom, most positively. “ It’s 
some trick of Tammany, I’ll warrant 
you. Oh, I know all about Tammany. 
I’ve gone through Tammany’s mill. 
There’s villainy at the bottom of it. 
No friend ever asks an appointment 
of that kind.” 

“ Nonsense, Tom !” responded 
Clinton, good humoredly, well know- 
ing that Tammany was one of 
Sponge’s weaknesses, and not being 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


1G7 


inclined to connect Margaret’s name 
with the affair. “Nonsense!” he 
went on. “What is there to fear.? 
The street selected is one of the 
most public in the city — the last 
place in the world for an ambus- 
cade. I’m resolved to see what it 
means.” 

“ Now, don’t, I beg of you,” said 
Tom, rising and laying his hand on 
Clinton’s shoulder with a look of 
deep concern in his eyes. “ I feel 
that there is mischief intended. You 
are in certain people’s way — more 
than you think for. They would 
only be too glad to have you removed. 
As for the place selected, traps are 
never set where they are looked 
for.” 

“ Why, my good friend,” said Clin- 
ton, still affecting to laugh at Tom’s 
apprehensions, “ it was only a minute 
ago that you w T anted to go out and 
kill somebody on the street. Now 
you are afraid of you don’t know 
what.” 

“Yes, oil your account,” replied 
Tom. “ I’m only a wreck, for whom 
nobody cares — only Tom Sponge. 
But you — you are Clinton Maintland. 
You have a future.” 

“Well, well,” responded Clinton, 
quietly, but firmly, “ my mind’s made 
up. I’m going to see it through.” 

“Then,” said Tom, speaking up 
quickly and decisively, “let me go 
in your place. We’re about of a 
height, and I can so disguise myself 
in your clothes that nobody will 
know the difference after night. If 
mischief’s intended, they won’t hurt 
me when they discover that they 
have got the wrong man.” 

“ On one condition,” replied Clin- 


ton. “ That I am to follow within 
seeing and striking distance ; and 
that we are to be entire strangers 
for the time being, should your 
suspicions as to the motive that 
induced the appointment prove un- 
founded.” 

And so it was arranged. Clinton 
was perfectly willing that Margaret 
should be somewhat frightened at 
first, as a punishment for her past 
unkindness, particularly as Tom’s 
discretion could be entirely relied 
upon. 

Soon after nightfall the friends 
were on their way to the scene of 
their expected adventure. Clinton’s 
clothes upon Tom’s person did have 
a somewhat baggy look, but other- 
wise the disguise was very good. As 
Tom had insisted upon going armed, 
he had one of a pair of pocket-pis- 
tols which had been the gift of a 
friend to Clinton, refusing the ten- 
der of the other, and compelling 
Clinton to retain it upon his own 
person. They were soon at Fulton 
Street, along which a murky stream 
of people was pouring towards the 
great ferry of that name. At the 
point indicated in the note, nothing- 
suspicious was to be seen, except a 
close carriage standing by the road- 
side, with the driver sitting like a 
statue on his box. Here the friends 
separated, Tom taking the north 
sidewalk, while Clinton sauntered 
along on the opposite side of the 
way. From William to Pearl 
marched Tom ; but nothing came of 
it. Back again to the starting-point 
with the same result. But a third 
time going over the ground, just 
after he had passed the carriage, the 


168 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


door opened, a figure in a dark 
female robe, and closely veiled, de- 
scended, and, slightly touching Tom’s 
arm as it hurried past him, kept ra- 
pidly on in the direction of the fer- 
ry, while the statuesque driver sud- 
denly arousing, the carriage rolled 
away and disappeared round the 
nearest corner. 

Tom promptly followed the dark 
figure, and Clinton, crossing over 
the street, joined in the pursuit, but 
keeping a little way in the rear. 
Into the throng .of people about the 
ferry-house the domino entered, but 
did not pass through the gate. On 
one side of the ferry-house was a 
pier running far out into the river, on 
the further end of which was a lamp 
burning, but with the flame turned 
down so low that its light was scarce- 
ly perceptible. Turning aside at the 
ferry entrance, and passing quickly 
round the corner of the building, 
the dark figure hurried out upon the 
pier. Tom, who had been pressing 
forward in the hope of getting a 
glimpse of her features, followed 
closely behind. Clinton was not so 
fortunate. A sudden rush of peo- 
ple cut him off, and it was some lit- 
tle time before he could so disen- 
gage himself as to follow after. As 
he entered upon the pier, he was 
startled by the report of a pistol at 
the further end, succeeded by a 
sharp cry and the dull splash of a 
body in water. Rushing forward, 
he could discover nothing that gave 
sign of life or motion. He shouted 
“ Sponge ! Sponge !” but there was 
no answer. At last, however, as his 
eyes became better accustomed to 
the dim light, he discovered what 


looked like a human body stretched 
out upon the planks, and he im- 
mediately sprang towards it. It was, 
indeed, a human being, warm, but 
quivering in the agonies of expiring 
life. With a cry of “ Oh, Tom, 
Tom, is it you ?” he turned it so that 
the face would come to the light, and, 
as he did so, started back with 
speechless horror. The face was not 
Tom Sponge’s, but it was one that 
was perfectly familiar. In the gleam 
of the faintly burning lamp falling 
upon it, Clinton recognized the same 
malignant, deadly expression which 
had once glared into his counte- 
nance from that of the ruffian Har- 
gate at Barton Seacrist’s dinner- 
party. At a glance he knew that 
face, which compressed all the fury 
and hate of a whole vicious life in its 
last terrible, settled stare. Utterly 
paralyzed by the spectacle, he stood 
with a dreamy consciousness that 
his hands were covered with blood, 
until he felt himself suddenly seized 
upon by strong men. Then, under 
the impression that he was in the 
hands of murderers, he resisted, and 
resisted terribly, struggling with al- 
most superhuman exertion ; but in 
vain. The odds against him were 
too great, and he was soon a help- 
less prisoner. Then there was a cla- 
mor of many voices, a rush of peo- 
ple, the gleaming of policemen’s uni- 
forms, and Clinton became conscious 
that he was the centre of an excited 
throng — the mark of many curious, 
and ‘some threatening, eyes. The 
balance of that night, and many 
nights and days following, he passed 
in a cell of the Tombs. 

Then did Clinton have an opportn. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


169 


nity to learn the value of that lauda- 
tion which had been so abundantly 
bestowed upon him in his hour of tri- 
umph. Of the many who had hailed 
him as the coming man, and been so 
profuse in their friendly professions, 
not one sufficiently sympathized with 
him in his trouble, even to inquire 
after his health — much less to come 
to his assistance. He was left en- 
tirely to himself. With Hargate’s 
memory it was different. The man, 
when alive, had been universally 
looked upon as a bad and desperate 
character ; but now, when dead, and 
there was a chance to hold him up 
as a political martyr, his virtues, be- 
fore undiscovered, were lauded al- 
most without measure. Clinton was 
alone in his prison cell, a universally 
execrated man, while a grand fune- 
ral cortege, with banners, and music, 
and thousands marching in proces- 
sion, was doing honor to the dead. 

In other respects did Clinton find 
the world equally unfair. He had 
before smiled at Gordon Seacrist’s 
attempt to dispossess him of the po- 
sition to which he had been chosen 
by the people. He knew that the 
evidence would all be in his favor, 
and that a body so respectable and 
responsible as the assembled law- 
makers of the great State of which 
he was a citizen, could decide other- 
wise than according to the weight of 
testimony, he never for a moment 
supposed. Yet, when the Legisla- 
ture assembled, Gordon was given 
the place for which Clinton had re- 
ceived five hundred majority, almost 
without a thought of the facts and 
rights of the case. 

Clinton, indeed, had much not 


only to depress him for the present, 
but to alarm him in view of the fu- 
ture. The case against him was 
wonderfully strong. He was found 
standing over the dead and murdered 
man ; there was blood upon his 
hands ; he had desperately resisted ' 
the attempt to arrest him ; and, most 
damaging of all, the pistol that had 
discharged the fatal ball, and which 
was discovered by the dead man’s 
side, was found to be the mate of one 
in Clinton’s pocket. There was a 
seeming motive, too, for the alleged 
criminal act. Hargate was to be one 
of Gordon Seacrist’s principal wit- 
nesses in the contested election case; 
and Scourge’s Sunday Plague , among 
many other fictions it published, did 
not hesitate to declare that the two 
men had been engaged in angry dis- 
putation but a few minutes before 
the bloody deed had been done. 
For these convicting circumstances 
there seemed to be no possible ex 
planation. Even the anonymous 
note, which had been the cause of an 
the trouble, was gone, having been 
in a pocket of Clinton’s coat which 
Tom Sponge was wearing. Tom, 
alas ! nothing had been heard of 
him since the fatal night. He, whose 
testimony would have made all clear, 
had as effectually disappeared as if 
he had been swallowed up by the 
great deep — as, indeed, was probably 
the case. 

It was, however, not merely the 
loss of Tom’s evidence that Clinton 
lamented. The thought that he had, 
probably, been the means of bring- 
ing about the generous fellow’s death 
was the most grievous of all his 
woes. Gladly would he then have 


170 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


laid down his own life, could it have 
availed to restore that one which he 
doubted not he had been the means 
of destroying. 

Poor Tom ! the tide was running 
out at the time of the fatal visit to 
the river’s side. Had the reader 
stood on the pier next seaward to 
the one on which the tragedy was 
enacted, at the moment of Clinton’s 
arrest, and looked down into the 
black waters that went heaving and 
sobbing past, he might have beheld 
for a moment, by the light of the 
solitary lamp burning there, a white 
and ghastly face go drifting by upon 
the current, and then all would have 
been dark again. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

HOW THE PARTY TOOK CARE OF HIM. 

The election over, among the first 
things which Clinton Maintland felt 
called upon to do, was to sit down 
and write a long letter to his father 
in answer to the one given in a pre- 
vious chapter, in which his infidelity' 
to his father’s political party had 
been so earnestly disapproved. In 
his reply Clinton relied for a vindi- 
cation of his course upon an argu- 
ment intended to prove that the citi- 
zen’s obligation was wholly due to 
his country, and that a party could 
have no rightful claim upon him 
when his conscience led him to ques- 
tion the justice of its aims or the in- 
tegrity of its management. The 
principle enunciated was simple 
enough, and could have led to no 
controversy, if it had been permitted 


to stand by itself. But, in its sup- 
port, the writer proceeded to review, 
in no very complimentary terms, cer- 
tain passages in the history of the 
political organization of which his 
father was so firm an upholder, and 
which were certainly amenable to 
criticism ; and somewhat boastfully, 
in conclusion, referred to the indorse- 
ment which his own defection had 
received from the people in his elec- 
tion to office. He certainly intended 
no affront, and yet he could have 
adopted no course better calculated 
to incense his father’s prejudices and 
offend his pride. From no one could 
Hugh Maintland so ill endure such 
an attack upon his most deeply 
rooted convictions as from his own 
son. To no one else would he have 
retorted so sharply. Looking upon 
Clinton’s epistle, not merely as an 
unwarranted assault upon his party, 
but as an evidence of abandonment 
of principle and disregard of parent- 
al counsel, he hastily responded in 
language that was full of bitter and 
cutting reproach. Scarcely had the 
letter gone when he regretted his 
precipitation. A little reflection 
satisfied him that his son’s words did 
not justify the construction he had 
given them, and that his party zeal 
had carried him too far ; but Hugh 
Maintland was not the man either 
fully to see or quickly to acknowledge 
his mistake. The mischief had been 
done. 

f But another matter had begun to 
claim Hugh Maintland’s attention, 
about which his mind was by no 
means easy. Another year’s rent 
for the farm upon which he was liv- 
ing was nearly due, and, after the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


171 


course he had pursued in opposing 
and defeating Colonel Kortriglit’s 
political aspirations, he could look 
for no indulgence at his hands ; and, 
indeed, his pride would not have per- 
mitted him to ask for any. As usual, 
he was behind in his affairs, and a 
considerable deficit in the amount of 
the rent remained to be made up. 
Clinton had before relieved him in 
such emergencies ; but how was he 
to appeal to Clinton for pecuniary 
assistance after the censorious letter 
he had written him, without an ac- 
knowledgment of error on his own 
part which he was unwilling to 
make ? Help, however, he must 
have, or he would be turned from 
his home. 

In this dilemma it was but natural 
that Hugh Maintland’s mind should 
revert to the assurances he had re- 
ceived from his party friends. They 
had both privately and publicly 
pledged themselves to “ take care of 
him ” in just such a difficulty as he 
was threatened with. The oppor- 
tunity to make good their words was 
now offered. Hugh Maintland was 
too proud a man either to ask or ac- 
cept of charity ; but there was more 
than one way in which the party 
could relieve him without humiliation 
on either side. It had valuable pa- 
tronage to bestow, and no one could 
deny that he was entitled, both by 
service and qualification, to its favor- 
able recognition. A case to put its 
professions to the test was about to 
arise. 

While Hugh Maintland was anx- 
iously considering the situation, an 
office in the gift of his party, the 
emoluments of which, could he ob- 


tain it, would furnish him all he de- 
sired — a comfortable maintenance for 
his family — suddenly became vacant. 
No sooner did the fact come to his 
knowledge, than he resolved to ask 
his party associates of Willowford to 
assist him in obtaining the place. 
A meeting in which they were fully 
represented, was, accordingly, held at 
Perry Doubleman’s store. Great en- 
thusiasm prevailed. Grupp presid- 
ed, and Phips was, as usual, far the 
most busy man on the occasion. 
Maintland frankly and fully stated 
the circumstances which led him to 
ask their support for the vacant po- 
sition, and the expression was una- 
nimous that he ought to have it. A 
petition was, accordingly, addressed 
to the appointing power, and signed 
by all present, setting forth Maint- 
land’s claims with great emphasis, 
and which Phips volunteered, from 
his strong interest in the case, and 
the great affection he had for the 
candidate, to take to the State ca- 
pital, that he might present it in 
person and support it with his pow- 
erful advocacy. “ If the claims of 
Willowford are not acknowledged, it 
will not be my fault,” said the ear- 
nest little man with tears in his eyes, 
as he shook Maintland’s hand for the 
dozenth time and was about to set 
out upon his important mission. Sev- 
eral days of great anxiety to Hugh 
Maintland, as they were bringing 
him perilously near to the threatened 
crisis in his affairs, went by, and 
then came word that Willowford’s 
“ claims ” to the coveted position had 
been acknowledged — by the appoint- 
ment of Phips. 

All hope of official assistance be- 


172 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ing thus cut off, there remained to 
Maintland no alternative but to soli- 
cit aid, in the form of a loan, from 
one of his political friends. To 
whom should he so readily go for a 
favor of that kind as to his friend, 
Grupp ? Still it was by no means 
with an easy heart that he sought 
that man of ample wealth and made 
known his want. It was only a 
small amount he needed to make up 
the deficiency in the sum that would 
save him his home — an amount 
which the rich Amos Grupp could 
have supplied without so much as 
feeling the loss. 

“ You know my rule,” said the ca- 
pitalist, after listening to Maintland’s 
account of his necessity — “ Land or 
two good securities. As you hain’t 
got no land, who’s your indorsers ?” 

“ Indorsers ! ” exclaimed Maint- 
land with a voice of surprise and 
indignation. “Surely you do not 
intend to enforce your rule against me 
— your personal and political friend ?” 

“And why not?” asked Grupp, 
with a look of almost equal astonish- 
ment. “We are friends and belong 
to the same party — that’s true ; but 
politics is politics, and business is 
business.” 

“ But you, with others, stand 
pledged by the most solemn pro- 
mise,” resumed Maintland, striving 
hard to retain the command over his 
temper, “ to see that I do not suffer 
the fate with which I am now 
threatened, on account of my devo- 
tion to our party.” 

“ That’s all right,” answered Grupp 
with undisturbed composure. “ The 
party’s bound, as you say, to take 
care of you ; but that’s no reason 


why I should do so. Let the party 
do its duty.” 

There was no help in that quarter ; 
and, with a heart that was like a 
stone, Hugh Maintland took his 
way, almost mechanically, to Perry 
Doubleman’s store, where he ex- 
pected to find some more of his po- 
litical friends, intending to ask them 
for that assistance which had just 
been denied him; and intending fur- 
ther, should that resource fail, at 
once to write to Clinton for his mo- 
ther’s sake, and acknowledge his er- 
ror ; for he was beginning to believe 
that his son, in his views concerning 
party authority, was right after all. 

He was not disappointed in find- 
ing several of the most zealous and 
responsible of his party associates at 
the accustomed rendezvous ; but he 
could not help noticing the look of 
estrangement, if not of positive aver- 
sion, with which he was regarded as 
he entered among them. Not one 
hand was held out in greeting. Al- 
ways before had his coming been 
hailed by the parties then present 
with the liveliest manifestations of 
pleasure. Nevertheless the urgency 
of the case was such that he was re- 
solved the seeming coldness of his 
friends should not deter him from 
his purpose. Asking their attention, 
he stated the trouble in which he 
found himself involved ; reminded 
them of their reiterated promise of 
assistance; and assured them that, if 
possibly in his power to prevent it, 
not one cent of loss should any of 
them sustain by securing him the 
trifling sum his necessity then de- 
manded. There was no immediate 
response from those to whom the ap- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


173 


peal was made ; but, withdrawing to 
themselves, they continued to talk 
together in low and earnest tones. 
At last a conclusion appearing to be 
reached, one of them, assuming to 
act as spokesman for the rest who 
stood approvingly at his back, in- 
formed Maintland that they pitied 
him very much indeed ; that the 
amount of money he required was a 
trifle about which they cared noth- 
ing ; but that for their own reputa- 
tions, they could not possibly con- 
sent to have any business or other 
connection with a man whose son 
was about to be hanged. 

“ Hanged ?” exclaimed Maintland, 
in a tone that sent the whole 
crew of them back several steps. 
“ Hanged ? — what do you mean ?” 

What ! was it possible that he had 
not heard the news — the terrible 
news about which everybody else was 
excited and talking ? 

No, he had heard nothing. 

Then there was put into Hugh 
Maintland’s hand his favorite party 
journals — the one from which he had 
been accustomed to read with so 
much satisfaction to his edified poli- 
tical sympathizers — containing an 
account, introduced with startling 
head-lines, and in a vein of scarcely 
disguised exultation over the down- 
fall of a prominant political adver- 
sary, of the dreadful tragedy in which 
Clinton Maintland was made to ap- 
pear in the light of a deliberate and 
red-handed assassin. 

Hugh Maintland dropped the pa- 
per, when he had finished reading 
the exaggerated and heartless record 
of the horrible affair, as he would a 


serpent, and, turning upon his heel, 
walked slowly from the room. 

Maintland made no further effort 
to escape the calamity with which he 
was threatened. He, indeed, had 
enough besides to think of. His 
son was in prison, charged with the 
crime of murder, and his wife, never 
strong, was so utterly prostrated by 
the blow that her life was for a time 
in danger, and her situation fully en- 
grossed her husband’s time and at- 
tention. Pay-day came, and the 
rent was unsatisfied. Then, as had 
been anticipated by the delinquent 
renter, followed the notice to leave, 
and, soon afterward the constable, 
appearing, began to transfer the few 
effects of which the debtor could not 
be deprived by law, from what had 
been Maintland’s cottage — now his, 
alas, no longer — to the public high- 
way. His sick wife, still unable to 
rise from her bed, was placed in the 
shade of a tree growing by the road- 
side ; and not far off was piled the 
furniture and other articles of which 
the house had been stripped. 

Hugh Maintland acted like one 
who was indifferent to the whole pro- 
ceeding. He took no part in the 
work of removal, and paid no atten- 
tion to the disposition that was made 
of the relics of his property. Stand- 
ing in the highway, outside the 
grounds which he no longer had a 
right to enter, with his hands folded 
across his breast, he continued to 
gaze upon the cottage in which he 
had been born, and which had sup- 
plied him the only home he had ever 
known — or then knew. To the few 
curious individuals who had gath- 


174 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ered about be spoke not a word, and 
no one seemed disposed to intrude 
upon his meditations. All regarded 
him with looks that expressed more 
of aversion than of sympathy, as 
though the shame, as well as the dis- 
aster, that had come upon his house, 
was properly chargeable to its natu- 
ral head. The man was for the time 
as much of an outcast from his neigh- 
bors’ hearts as from the home in 
which he had dwelt. Indeed, very 
few of his neighbors were to be seen. 
Neither Grupp, nor Phips, nor any 
other one of his late partisan friends, 
who had been so ' zealous to declare 
their readiness to take care of him, 
was present. 

At last there was a little stir, and 
the spectators, with looks expressive 
of great deference, stepped aside to 
make way for a tall and somewhat 
elderly man who came riding up on 
a spirited horse. Colonel Kortright, 
for he it was, having dismounted and 
handed the bridle to some one who 
tendered his services to hold the 
animal, walked directly up to his 
late tenant. 

“ Moving, I see,” he remarked, in 
a tone that was full of quiet sar- 
casm. 

“Yes, sir — moving,” was the reply, 
in a voice that manifested not the 
least feeling. 

“ You now see, Hugh Maintland,” 
Kortright went on, with not a little 
triumph in his look and manner, 
“ what your foolish opposition to 
your old neighbor has brought you 
to. It is all your own doing.” 

“ I did my duty, sir,” was the calm 
response. 

“Well, if you think so, so be it. 


That is your concern — not mine,” 
said the Colonel, haughtily, clearly 
somewhat nettled by the other’s 
coolness. “ I am not here to re- 
proach you ; but to tender you any 
present assistance you may be in 
need of.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you ! Thank you, neigh- 
bor Kortright !” rejoined Maintland, 
in the same deliberate tone ; but 
with just a little fire gleaming in his 
eye. “ You are very good ; but I 
could not think of taxing your gen- 
erosity any further, after the kind- 
ness you have shown to me and 
mine in turning us from the farm.” 

“Farm,” responded Kortright, 
with a sneer that showed how Maint- 
land’s words had pricked him. “I 
should like to know what business 
you have with a farm ? Raising po- 
tatoes and corn is quite beneath the 
occupation of a gentleman so em- 
ployed with the affairs of his country. 
You have given your time to the 
public, and now the public is likely 
to reward you — in the Poor-House.” 

“ It was my right,” replied Maint- 
land bitterly. 

“ Right — oh, yes — undoubtedly 
your right,” went on Colonel Kort- 
right, with increased offensiveness. 
“So it was the right of that son of 
yours to go off to New York to live 
a gentleman ; and now, if justice 
is done him, he is likely to end his 
vagabond career on the gallows.” 

Hugh Maintland, up to this point, 
had never changed his position, nor 
to any considerable extent the ex- 
pression of his countenance. But 
now, in an instant, the whole man 
was transformed. Dropping his 
hands from his breast, and confront- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


175 


ing Ins late landlord with a visage 
all aglow with passion, he hurled his 
words, each one emphasized with 
out-stretched finger, right into his 
face. 

“ My boy may have in some things 
erred ; but whoever says that he is 
guilty of murder — lies !” 

Colonel Kortright was a man, not 
merely of undoubted courage, but of 
hasty temper. His honor was a 
point upon which he had always been 
most tender. Without pausing to 
consider the source from which it 
came, he immediately resented the 
insult with a blow. 

The blow reached its mark, leaving 
a bright red spot on Hugh Maint- 
land’s brown cheek ; but it might as 
well have been a breath of air. The 
man was not even staggered by it. 
But the effect upon his spirit was in- 
stantaneous. Gathering his whole 
strength in the effort, he sprang 
directly at his assailant’s throat. 
Kortright went down before him like 
a reed before a tiger. Then there 
was a struggle, and a gurgling, chok 
ing noise upon the ground ; and 
then the by-standers, recovering 
from the stupefaction into which they 
were thrown by the suddenness of 
the affair, rushed forward and 
dragged the two men apart, with 
difficulty breaking Maintland’s des- 
perate grip. 

There was no further violence. 
Kortright was so stunned as to be 
unable to rise ; but, being lifted to 
his feet, he soon recovered sufficient- 
ly to be able, with the assistance 
that was abundantly tendered, to 
take his seat in the saddle. 

As for Maintland, folding his arms 


and saying not a word, he stood 
apart, apparently the least excited 
man in the crowd. No one spoke 
to him. The constable, indeed, did 
approach with a view to arresting 
him for assault ; but Kortright, who 
was by this time in the saddle, see- 
ing the movement, sternly inter- 
fered. • 

“ Not at all,” said he. “ I was the 
one in fault.” 

And with these words, turning his 
horse’s head about, Kortright rode 
slowly away. 

But the affair did not end there. 
The next day it was reported that 
Colonel Kortright was ill. The ex- 
citement of the scene just described 
had been too much for his strength. 
Still no alarm was felt. But the 
sick man grew worse ; fever set in ; 
and finally reason gave way. In his 
last painful hours he was back at 
Hugh Maintland’s cottage, living 
over the events that had so grievous- 
ly affected him. Once more was he 
exercising the landlord’s right of 
turning the delinquent tenant out of 
doors. Then he was taunting him 
with his obstinate adherence to his 
party’s cause ; and then, imagining 
himself the victim of assault, with 
outstretched, quivering hands, and 
terror-stricken countenance, he would 
shout, “ Keep him back ! Keep him 
back ! He will kill me ! He will 
kill me!” — and, with these piteous 
words upon his lips, the breath went 
out. Hugh Maintland was terribly 
avenged. 

Scarcely had the landlord ridden 
from the ground, leaving his late 
tenant shelterless upon the highway, 
when a most unique caravan was 


176 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY 


seen approaching. First came an 
old-fashioned family carriage ; then 
a jaunty market-cart ; and then a 
heavy farmer’s wagon. As the queer 
procession drew near, the sharp fea- 
tures of Polly Brown were seen in 
the foremost vehicle, she having been 
left in charge at home, as the reader 
already know^, by Martin Swart- 
wout, who had hurried off to New 
York at Clinton Mainland’s sum- 
mons. Soon the shrill voice of that 
energetic woman was heard giving 
orders that no one presumed to dis- 
pute. Hugh Maintland stood to 
one side like a person from whom all 
hope and energy had departed, or 
moved about like one whose powers 
were merely mechanical. But, un- 
der Polly’s direction, everything was 
satisfactorily adjusted. The sick wo- 
man being comfortably fixed in the 
old carriage, and the household 
furniture and other effects of the 
evicted family being safely loaded 
upon the other vehicles, the cara- 
van was got in motion, and moved 
slowly out of Willowford. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN PRISON. 

The anonymous note, which had 
proved such a successful decoy, was 
still a mystery. But Clinton, always 
decided in his opinions while they 
lasted, believed that he understood 
both its origin and its purpose. He 
had adopted Tom Sponge’s hypo- 
thesis with even more than Tom 
Sponge’s positiveness. It was clearly 
the work of some one in the Sea- 


crist interest ; and if so, could Bar- 
ton Seacrist and his daughter have 
been in ignorance of the plot, either 
as to its conception or its execution ? 
He had ere this learned enough of 
Kate’s share in the machinations for 
which her father obtained credit 
with the public, to suspect her of the 
gravest capabilities. His heart had, 
indeed, wonderfully turned from its 
recent idolatry. He now marvelled 
that he should ever have been the 
vassal of one whom he had come to 
look upon merely as a deep and dan- 
gerous schemer. Brooding over his 
wrongs as he lay in prison, the vic- 
tim of false and cruel accusation, his 
recent triumph turned to defeat, and 
his very life put in danger by a hid- 
den enemy, whose impress he be- 
lieved he saw, all his love was 
turned to bitterest hate. So firmly 
had the conviction of the Seacrists’ 
agency in his misfortune fastened 
itself upon his mind, that all suspi- 
cions of Margaret Kortright’s con- 
nection with it had departed. Of 
her whom it was no longer in his 
power to snatch from a threatened 
calamity even greater than his own, 
he thought only in kindness and 
pity. Every trace of vindictiveness 
towards her was gone. Strangely 
enough there had entered his mind 
a vague and dreamy feeling that he 
was not forgotten by her, and that 
she would yet come to him in kind- 
ness. His judgment told him that 
the thought was folly, and yet in his 
enforced idleness it was pleasant to 
dwell upon, and he indulged the 
fancy. His mind was thus one day 
employed as one of the prison atten- 
dants suddenly turned the key in the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


177 


door of his cell, and shouted in his 
ear : 

“ A ’oman wants ter see yer.” 

Springing to his feet Clinton, in a 
moment, was ready to obey the sum- 
mons. 

“ The bracelets if yer please, when 
yer leaves this ’ere crib.” 

It was with a sudden sinking of the 
heart that Clinton held out his hands 
to receive the manacles, at the 
thought of his degradation in the eyes 
of his visitor, who might be Mar- 
garet. The feeling was but moment- 
ary, and with a firm step, although 
with a heart beating somewhat faster 
than was its wont, he followed his 
conductor to the apartment in which 
prisoners were allowed to be seen by 
their friends. 

Sitting on a low bench was a female 
figure, a thick veil completely conceal- 
ing her face, that hastily arose as he 
entered the room. For nearly a min- 
ute the parties stood face to face, one 
of them undecided as to who his asso- 
ciate was. Then the veil was swept 
aside, and Clinton started back in 
something almost like terror as he 
met the keen and unexpected glance 
of Kate Seacrist. 

A moment passed before a word 
was spoken, and in that moment Clin- 
ton had so far regained his self-pos- 
session as to be fully nerved for the 
interview. 

“ Mr. Maintland, I wish to save 
you.” 

This was spoken not without a 
slight tremulousness of voice that tes- 
tified to the truthfulness of the 
words. Clinton’s reply, however, was, 
surprisingly firm — even repellent. 


“ If I am guilty, I ought not to be 
saved.” 

“ But you are not guilty — I know 
you are not guilty,” instantly replied 
Kate, without seeming to notice, if 
in truth she did notice, the opposition 
that was in his speech. 

“ And why should you wish to save 
me?” 

Before Kate replied to this ques- 
tion she walked up to Clinton, and, 
putting her hands upon the chain by 
which his hands were bound togeth- 
er, as if to unite her fate to his, 
looked him sharply in the face. 

“ Because I love you.” 

Then, as if her resolution were 
well nigh exhausted in that one brief 
declaration, she hurried on with wild 
impetuosity : “ Oh, Clinton, Clinton,, 
is it possible that you can misunder- 
stand me ? Surely my presence here 
— in prison — with you — should speak, 
for me — plead with me. You can- 
not, oh, I know, you cannot doubt 
my heart ! I gave you up once be- 
cause you would not serve my father’s 
ends. I found, however, that my 
love for you was stronger than a 
father’s word. Again I surrendered 
you when I found that you were re- 
solved to oppose the things upon 
which my heart was set — for which I 
had labored long and earnestly. 
Now I have found that my love is 
even stronger than my ambition. I 
am now ready to give up everything 
for it. I make no conditions. I only 
ask you to let me save you — for I 
know who are against you, and how 
their plans may be circumvented — 
and that then — then everything may 
be between us as it once was.” 


178 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


There could be no doubt of the 
sincerity of the speaker’s words, how- 
ever selfish the motive that inspired 
them. Her auditor did not question 
their truth, and the look of painful 
indecision that momentarily pos- 
sessed his features — not unobserved 
by his companion — showed how pro- 
foundly he was affected by them. 
The struggle was but brief. The 
wavering look settled into an expres- 
sion of stern inflexibility. 

“It cannot be, Kate — Miss Sea- 
crist. I have ceased to love you.” 

“I do not ask you to love me,” 
said Kate, with startling energy. 
“I ask you to pity me. Listen, Clin- 
ton Maintland — for you shall know 
everything. I am to-day the affianced 
bride of — of Abel Cummager. Ah! 
I see you start. To save my father 
from defeat and ruin I promised to 
marry that man. It was a promise 
obtained by base compulsion. Never- 
theless I intended, when it was 
made, compulsory, invalid as it was, 
faithfully to keep if. I intended to 
do so until — until you were brought 
here. Then I resolved to try to save 
you and myself — both — you from 
death — from dishonor — myself from 
something worse than death. Oh, 
Clinton, Clinton, shall it not be so ? 
On my knees I ask it.” 

And, still retaining her grasp upon 
the chain, Kate sank upon her knees 
before Clinton, the great crystal 
drops coursing down her cheeks, and 
her eyes looking up most pleadingly 
into his. Clinton was affected — most 
deeply affected. He trembled through 
all his limbs. Had he permitted 
himself then to have met the look 


that was fixed upon him, he must 
have yielded. He, however, turned 
aside his face. He even closed his 
eyes to exclude the dangerous vision. 
With a struggle he prepared himself 
to speak. 

“ Eise, Miss Seacrist — rise,” he 
said, quietly and sorrowfully. “ I 
cannot consent to purchase happi- 
ness for you — safety for myself, on 
such terms.” 

“ What !” exclaimed Kate, sudden- 
ly springing to her feet, her eyes 
fairly flashing malignant fire, “ do 
you — dare you, Clinton Maintland, 
refuse, defy me now? Eemember 
it is the second time I have offered 
you my love. It shall be the last. I 
have humbled myself as woman 
never before did — and is it to be for 
this ? Eemember, I can save you — 
save both life and honor — or I can 
leave you to your fate. You may 
not realize it, but your case is des- 
perate. Men have conspired against 
you who are merciless. You have 
no other hope of escape. Consider 
again, Clinton Maintland, before it is 
too late.” 

Kate, while she was speaking, had 
moved to the door of the room and 
placed her hand upon it, ready to 
give the signal for it to be opened 
from without. And there they stood 
— Clinton erect, self-possessed and 
resolute, his manacled hands before 
him, helpless, and yet so strong ; for 
Kate’s last words had thoroughly 
aroused him to resistance ; and she, 
all tremulous with mingled passion 
and excitement. For a moment or 
two they silently looked into each 
other’s eyes, and then Clinton spoke : 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


179 


“ I have considered, Miss Seacrist 
— fully, finally. I shall trust my 
fate to Heaven. Farewell !” 

And with that he turned his back. 

The signal was given ; the great 
iron door swung open ; but, before 
taking her departure, Kate Seacrist 
stepped up to Clinton and hissed in 
his ear : 

“ Farewell, Clinton Maintland — 
and forever.” 

Passing out of the room, and out 
of the building, Kate hurried along 
one of the inferior streets surround- 
ing the great prison, so closely veiled 
as seemingly to defy recognition, on 
her way to the point where her car- 
riage was awaiting her ; for she had 
no desire to have the public know 
that she had visited the Tombs. 
She had not proceeded far when she 
became aware that she was followed 
by some one. She, in consequence, 
hurried her steps, but in vain. Just 
as she had reached one of the worst 
parts of one of the worst streets, 
her pursuer overtook and addressed 
her : 

“A word with you, Miss, if you 
please.” 

Kate, glancing at the speaker, and 
seeing a shabbily-dressed and hag- 
gardly-appearing man, took from her 
pocket a silver coin, and extended it 
towards him. Instead of accepting 
the money, the stranger stepped di- 
rectly before her and looked steadily 
into her face. Kate, for she could 
for the time do nothing else, re- 
turned his gaze ; and, as she did so, 
she gave a start, the coin dropped 
from her extended hand, and she 
trembled all over with visible agi- 
tation. 


“You remember me, I see,” said 
the man with a taunting, horrid 
laugh, “ remember Robert Hazen, 
your old lover — the man you were to 
have married and whose heart you 
broke — just out of prison, and right 
glad to meet you once more. How 
are you, to be sure ?” 

Here the man gave vent to an- 
other coarse, mocking laugh. 

“ Stop, my dear,” he added, stretch- 
ing out his arm to intercept her, as 
she attempted to slip by him. “ Stop ! 
a word before you go. You have 
just come from the Tombs. A nice 
place, izzn’t it ? Spent a good deal 
of my time there since we separated. 
How do you like it, to be sure? 
Stop, not so fast. 

“A word of business before you 
go,” Hazen added, after again inter- 
cepting Kate. “ You’ve got a friend 
in the Tombs. He’s in there for 
murder. He didn’t kill the man, 
and I know ” 

“ Police ! police !” shouted Kate to 
a watchman who at this moment 
turned a corner near at hand. The 
officer quickly responded to her call; 
but, as she undertook to point out 
the man who had molested her, he 
was not to be seen. Hazen had 
disappeared. 


CHAPTER XVHL 

ANOTHER WOMAN. 

“ Another ’oman wants ter see 
yet’.” 

Margaret Kortright had been con- 
fined to her room by serious illness 
during all the time the events last 


180 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


related were transpiring. But al- 
though unable to see and converse 
with Clinton Maintland, as had been 
her desire at the time she was pros- 
trated, he was by no means out of 
her thoughts. Indeed, while alone 
in her chamber, with nothing to dis- 
turb her meditations, she thought of 
him very often, and with a frame of 
mind that was very far from satis- 
factory. She was afraid she had 
done him injustice. Especially since 
his gallant behavior on the night of 
the banner-presentation, had she dis- 
trusted her former judgment of his 
conduct and character. Was a man 
who could do as brave and disin- 
terested an act as she had reason to 
thank him for, capable of the base- 
ness of which she had supposed him 
guilty ? was a question she could not 
help asking. The more she reflect- 
ed upon the matter, the more her 
heart softened towards the friend of 
her childhood. Not that she was in 
love with Clinton Maintland, or sus- 
pected herself of being in any dan- 
ger of such a thing. She was en- 
gaged to be married to another man 
— a man of whom, as she felt it her 
duty to be, she was very fond. And, 
besides, could there be any harm in 
thinking a good deal and kindly 
about a person whom she was afraid 
she had treated badly, and who was 
an old acquaintance and companion ? 

When the great trouble came upon 
Clinton, Margaret heard of it, of 
course, and was very much shocked. 
She was even surprised to find how 
much she was shocked by the intel- 
ligence. Clara Bafford, who was 
duly advised by Gordon Seacrist, 
kept her fully enlightened as to all 


the details of the horrible affair. 
“It’s only w T liat I expected,” said 
that positive young lady, “of one 
who could so abuse that sweet, dear 
creature you were so good to,” refer- 
ring to her former “ beggar and im- 
postor,” Alice Plain. 

But was he guilty ? That was the 
question which, although she said no- 
thing upon the subject, was upper- 
most in Margaret’s mind. She did not 
believe he was — at least she was not 
going to believe he was until she had 
made some inquiry on her own ac- 
count. She had done him injustice 
herself — she now felt quite certain 
she had — by a hasty decision, and 
might not others do the same thing ? 

“Where is Clara?” Margaret one 
day asked, after she had so far con- 
valesced as to be able to ride out a 
little for exercise. Clara was out — 
had gone a-shopping. Margaret 
might have known as much ; for 
Clara had that morning told her that 
such was her purpose. Had the 
family carriage gone with her ? It 
had. Then would some one order a 
hack ? She wanted the air ; and, 
besides, she had a purchase to make 
The hack came, and was directed to 
drive to a down town store. Stop- 
ping long enough to make some in- 
considerable purchase, Margaret once 
more entered the carriage. 

“Where now, Miss?” asked the 
driver. 

“To the Tombs.” 

“ The prison ?” inquired Jehu, in 
astonishment. 

“ Yes, the prison.” 

Margaret evidently meant just 
what she said, and she was, accord- 
ingly, driven to the point indicated. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


181 


“ Anything, Miss, for anybody 
inside ?” 

Nothing. Margaret would go in 
herself, and the carriage should wait 
for her ; and Jehu was once more 
astonished. 

But the undertaking was not as 
easy as she had thought. A chill 
came over her, and she almost 
turned and fled in terror from the 
spot, when she found herself within 
that dark and melancholy structure 
which has so much in its history and 
associations to justify its name. But, 
mustering all her courage, she suc- 
ceeded in making known her wish at 
the proper office, and was duly shown 
to the reception room. 

“ Maintland ’s in luck to-day,” re- 
marked an official in charge to one 
of his chums, when Margaret had 
left the prison office. “That last 
’un’s not the common sort neither, 
I tell ye. D’ye see how she trirn- 
bled ?” 

Margaret did, indeed, “trimble,” 
as the officer expressed it, in spite of 
herself. Everything about her oper- 
ated with strange terror upon her 
nerves. The atmosphere of the 
place, pungent and sickening, op- 
pressed her ; the dark, heavy walls 
and the grated windows were sadly 
suggestive ; and every now and then 
the sound of a key turning in its 
lock, or the crashing to of some 
great iron door, sent a shiver through 
her frame. Gladly did she sink 
down upon a bench in the room to 
which she was shown, and with wild- 
ly fluttering heart she there awaited 
the coming of the man who had so 
deeply interested her. 


But a still greater shock was in 
store for her. She had not without 
some hesitation ventured upon the 
step she had taken, in view of the 
alienation that had existed between 
herself and the person she expected 
to see. How should she explain her 
visit? To meet the difficulty she 
had arranged a neat little address of 
condolence for Clinton, to be deliv- 
ered when they met. To her mind 
he was the same person she had be- 
fore seen — strong, tall, and reliant. 
But when, her attention being sud- 
denly aroused in the midst of her 
meditations, she looked up and saw 
before her the man she had known, 
with great irons upon his hands, and 
his countenance pale with confine- 
ment, so changed and serious, she 
utterly forgot her studied words and 
burst into tears. 

Clinton was the first to speak — the 
first to turn consoler. 

“ You do not seem well, Miss Kort- 
right. I am afraid this place has 
overcome you.” 

“I have been ill, sir — very ill— 
ever since the time you were so — so 
kind to me,” with difficulty replied 
Margaret through her tears. 

“ Then you did not send me a note 
a' short time since ? — asked for no 
interview ?” 

“ I sent you no note — asked for no 
interview,” answered Margaret, with 
no little amazement in her eyes. 

The door for explanation was open, 
and so well was the opportunity im- 
proved that when, nearly an hour 
afterwards, an elderly gentleman 
called and asked the privilege of see- 
ing Clinton Maintland, and was ac- 


182 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


cordingly conducted to the visitors’ 
room, he held up his hands in as- 
tonishment at seeing that young 
gentleman and an elegantly attired 
female conversing together upon 
seemingly the very best understand- 
ing. 

“Don’t pity yer a bit, Clint, if 
that’s the sort a company yer has in 
this here place,” said Martin Swart- 
wout to his nephew, after Margaret 
Kortright was gone. 

But Margaret was to meet another 
party whom she had not for a long 
time seen, as was shown by the fact 
that when she reached home she was 
accompanied by Alice Plain. To 
Clara Bafibrd’s inquiry, What she 
had again picked up “ that beggar ” 
for ? she replied that she needed her 
services in preparing for her wed- 
ding, there was so much fine sewing 
to be done. 

“Oh, she better than an Italian 
boy, I admit,” replied the vivacious 
young lady as she went skipping 
away, and who was soon employed 
in a very entertaining conversation 
with Gordon Seacrist in the parlor 
below, Margaret being too much 
fatigued with her “ shopping ” to 
appear. 

Under the protection, and much 
of her time in the company of her 
new employer, quiet, reticent, and 
seemingly not altogether unhappy, 
her fingers never wearying, and the 
busy needle speeding on and on from 
morning to night, did Alice remain, 
making ready the garment in which 
another woman was to be married 
to her own husband. 


CHAPTER XL2t 

THE WEDDING. 

The wedding, originally intended 
to follow immediately after the elec- 
tion, had of necessity been post- 
poned on account of Margaret’s ill- 
ness. But as she was rapidly conva- 
lescing, it was now arranged that it 
should precede the meeting of the 
Legislature a sufficient time for Gor- 
don Seacrist to enter, without inter- 
ruption, upon the serious duties his 
place in that honorable body would 
impose upon him. True, he had not 
been chosen to the position, and an- 
other man, by virtue of a majority 
of five hundred votes, held the cre- 
dential to the place ; but that cir- 
cumstance gave Gordon very little 
uneasiness. The other man was in 
prison, charged with the highest 
grade of felony, and, besides, due 
precautions, in the nature of proper 
pre-arrangements with the men who 
were to be judges in the case, had 
been taken to ensure a satisfactory 
result. On all these points Marga- 
ret was kept duly advised, as the 
steps that from time to time were 
taken in the matter reflected the 
very highest credit upon the saga- 
city of her future husband. There 
was another ground for expedition in 
the business. News of the death of 
Margaret’s father had been received; 
and, while the intelligence was not of 
a nature to add to the gayeties of a 
wedding occasion, it imposed upon 
Margaret a responsibility as the in- 
heritor of a large property, which 
she needed the assistance of a hus- 
band properly to meet. Gordon, on 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


183 


being advised of the additional lia- 
bility that would come with a wife, 
showed no hesitation whatever in ac- 
cepting the trust. On the contrary, 
he displayed a most commendable 
readiness to enter upon the financial 
charge. 

Accordingly, the preparations for 
the grand event were pushed for- 
ward with all becoming dispatch. A 
change in the programme originally 
marked out was rendered necessary 
by the occurrences just referred to. 
A grand wedding, with receptions 
and other customary festivities, had 
been in contemplation ; but now the 
whole plan of procedure was changed. 
Margaret insisted that the affair 
should be conducted as quietly and 
unostentatiously as possible, and Gor- 
don, willing to expedite matters to 
the utmost, gracefully yielded his ac- 
quiescence. 

There was a little church on a 
quiet street — very far from fashiona- 
ble either in location or attendance, 
for both were of the poorer sort — 
with the pastor of which Margaret, 
in some of her charitable operations, 
had become intimate ; and there it 
was, and by her friend, the clergy- 
man in charge, she insisted the cere- 
mony should be performed,, with 
only a few personal friends as wit- 
nesses. Gordon assented at once. 
But there was another party to whom 
the arrangement was wholly unac- 
ceptable. Clara Bafford, according 
to the original design, was to have 
been Margaret’s first bride’s-maid, 
and to her the change of programme 
was a most serious disappointment. 
Most vigorously did she enter her 
protest, declaring that she saw no 


use in getting married at all, if there 
was to be no excitement about it. 
She quite lost her temper with her 
cousin, and her spirits at the same 
time. She grew sullen and discon- 
tented ; fretted over the most incon- 
siderable annoyances ; avoided Mar- 
garet’s society, and on more than 
one occasion was found by the latter 
in tears — all owing to her disap- 
pointment, as she said, about the 
wedding. Still there was no modifi- 
cation in Margaret’s resolution — 
hard hearted as such a course might 
appear. At the same time, however, 
it must be urged in extenuation of 
her seeming callousness, that she 
was, probably, not fully aware of her 
cousin’s suffering, as Clara wept 
much in private ; and then she had 
so much to think about on her own 
account. So busy was she with her 
preparations that she even some- 
times excused herself to Gordon, 
leaving to Clara the duty of enter- 
taining him when he called — a duty 
which the latter never failed satisfac- 
torily to perform, great as her afflic- 
tion was. 

Margaret, indeed, was very closely 
employed. She had a great deal of 
shopping to do ; and, as Clara no 
longer accompanied her, she had 
always to go alone. She went no 
more near the Tombs ; but scarcely 
a day passed that she did not — by 
accident, of course — meet Martin 
Swartwout, and, as they were from 
the same section of country, they 
invariably had a long and confiden- 
tial talk. Besides ail this, Margaret 
had Alice Plain and her work to 
look after. It had been arranged 
that she was to be married in travel- 


184 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ling costume. Indeed, the pro- 
gramme was that the newly-married 
couple were to proceed directly from 
the church to the depot on their way 
to Willowford to look after Marga- 
ret’s financial affairs. Accordingly, 
Margaret and Alice spent a great 
deal of their time together, the lat- 
ter employed upon the suit — a very 
plain and modest one — in which the 
former was to become a bride. And 
not to be an exception in such 
cases, Margaret herself seemed to 
have a very large share of her mind 
— if not of her heart — fixed upon 
her wedding outfit. 

Patiently and faithfully did Alice 
labor at her task, her delicate fingers 
noiselessly and with matchless skill 
constructing those wonders of femi- 
nine handicraft which are so indis- 
pensable on such occasions, adding, 
as the}’ - do, so largely to the strength 
and beauty of the marriage relation. 
Although an occasional sigh did es- 
cape her, she seemed by no means 
discontented either with her work or 
her companionship. Once only did 
she give way to the emotion, which, 
under such circumstances, could 
hardly be expected to be entirely ab- 
sent from her heart. It was when 
the wedding-suit was finished, and 
she and Margaret being discovered 
to be about of a height, the latter 
requested the former to put it on, 
that she might study the effect. 
Alice obeyed ; but, when duly acou- 
tred in the marriage-robe, instead of 
standing like a manikin to exhibit 
the consequential garment, she sud- 
denly burst into tears and threw her- 
self into her companion’s arms. 

The day in due time arrived. A 


small party had gathered at the par- 
lors of the parsonage connected with 
the church where the marriage was 
to take place. On the part of the 
groom were his father, his sister 
Kate, and two or three very particu* 
lar friends ; while on Margaret’s side 
were only her uncle and aunt Baf- 
ford — the attendance being thus 
limited at the bride’s particular re- 
quest. Clara was at home, and in 
bed — down with an agonizing head- 
ache, the result of much weeping ; 
although she could hardly have told 
whether it was for disappointment 
about the wedding, or in view of the 
loss of her cousin’s society. Indeed 
her eyes had hardly been dry for 
several days. 

Margaret was yet far from strong, 
and, upon the party’s arrival at the 
parsonage, was forced by a sudden 
faintness to retire to a private room, 
the remainder of the company pass- 
ing away the time in conversation as 
best they could. So long a time 
elapsed, however, that the others 
were beginning to grow impatient, 
when, the door opening, the expect- 
ed one, with a veil thrown over her 
face, entered somewhat hastily, and, 
taking Gordon’s arm, the entire par- 
ty at once proceeded to the church. 
There the regular clergyman was 
already at his place before the altar, 
and beside him, or rather, a little in 
the background, stood another per- 
son, an entire stranger to all pre- 
sent ; but as he was, probably, 
some friend of the pastor — a bro- 
ther, most likely, in the church — 
his presence and position excited no 
surprise. 

Notwithstanding the day outside 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


185 


was clear and brilliant, the body of 
the church was full of a solemn 
gloom, with the exception of a nar- 
row strip of light before the altar, 
which came from a half open win- 
dow through which the sun was 
shining. Into this the parties about 
to be united were compelled to pass, 
and, standing there in the clear, 
strong sunlight, the bride-to-be hav- 
ing pushed aside her veil, all their 
features were fully and sharply re- 
vealed. 

Everything seemed to be in readi- 
ness, and yet the ceremony did not 
proceed. The friends had all taken 
their places ; the silence of expect- 
ancy was upon the assembly ; but 
the clergyman did not open his lips. 
The unknown man was the only one 
employed, his eyes being intently 
busy with the countenances of the 
wedding couple before him. The de- 
lay was becoming irksome ; the 
guests were beginning to look in- 
quiringly into each other’s eyes ; and 
a frown had gathered upon Gordon’s 
brow ; when the awkward silence 
was suddenly broken by the stranger 
who, in a deep-toned voice, began as 
if speaking, to himself : 

“ The same ; there is no doubt of 
it whatever.” 

This singular remark necessarily 
created some commotion ; and, as 
the female by his side began to trem- 
ble violently, Gordon turned to whis- 
per an assuring word in her ear, 
when he started back with a face 
that was ashen with surprise and 
terror. 

“ Great God !” he exclaimed, “ it 
is Alice Plain.” 


It was even so. The person whom 
Gordon Seacrist had been support- 
ing upon his arm was his wife already, 
the betrayed and deserted Alice 
Plain ; and the unknown individual, 
whose unexpected observation and 
unaccountable proceeding had ap- 
peared so unmeaning, was no other 
than the clergyman who, having 
married Gordon and Alice, had as- 
sured Tom Sponge that he should 
know them again, if similarly dressed 
and occupying the same attitude, 
they should once more stand before 
him. 

The scene instantly became one of 
intense confusion. Gordon burst 
forth into maledictions upon all who 
had been parties to the deception 
practiced upon him, and Alice sank 
down helplessly upon the floor. The 
only person present who was not 
greatly disturbed, was Barton Sea- 
crist, who at once entered upon an 
inquiry into the facts of the case, 
resulting in a pretty full exposure of 
the history already familiar to the 
reader. 

“It is vain for you to make de- 
nial,” he finally said, turning to Gor- 
don, who persisted in disputing some 
of the facts that were brought out. 
“ You have been a bad, disobedient 
boy ; and the only wonder is that 
you were not sooner entrapped. It 
is cause for congratulation that you 
have escaped a crime that would 
have brought additional disgrace 
upon yourself and your family.” 

Then turning to those about him, 
the old man continued : 

“ It is fortunate that none are pre- 
sent whose discretion cannot be trust- 


186 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


ed. For the sake of myself and 
daughter I shall expect the public to 
know nothing of this.” 

“ And you, madam, who appear to 
be my legal daughter-in-law,” he 
went on, turning sharply to Alice, “I 
shall expect to see elsewhere, when 
it suits your convenience, and we 
will see what can be done for you.” 

“ And now, Kate,” he remarked, in 
conclusion, turning to his daughter, 
who, with true sisterly affection, had 
thrown her arms about her brother’s 
neck, “let us be gone. .We have no 
further business here.” And, taking 
the weeping girl upon his arm, he 
quietly left the room. 

As for Margaret — still Margaret 
Kortright — she was already on her 
journey towards Willowford. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE TRIAL. 

Clinton, although a prisoner in a 
prisoner’s cell, and wholly abandoned 
by the noisy throng of admirers who 
had gathered round him in his day 
of supposed prosperity, was not alto- 
gether without companionship. Be- 
sides the two visits that have already 
been described, he was favored with 
much of the society of his uncle, 
Martin Swartwout, who, having safe- 
ly reached the great city, lost no 
time in so conciliating the prison 
officials as to gain admission to his 
nephew almost at pleasure, and his 
presence was always most grateful. 
It was not merely that the great- 
hearted man seemed to bring with 
him, in Lis genial ways and .ever 


cheerful temper, a portion of the 
sunshine that was without the pri- 
son walls, but he proved to be a 
most valuable helper. He had em- 
ployed counsel for the defence, in- 
sisting upon having the most able 
advocate at the bar and taking 
upon himself the whole burden of 
the expense. But he had, in addi- 
tion, set about an investigation of 
the case on his own account, and in 
his own way, with results that proved 
him to be far from an indifferent de- 
tective. That he might frequently 
examine the scene of the alleged 
murder, as he said, he had taken 
lodging down near the river’s side, 
although the location was anything 
but attractive. If there was any 
other inducement that had taken 
him there, or kept him there, he 
kept the fact closely to himself. He 
had, by Clinton’s request, hunted up 
Alice Plain, and spoke well of the 
modesty and good sense of that un- 
fortunate female, the next time he 
saw his nephew. To his meetings 
and conversations with Margaret 
Kortright he made no allusion what- 
ever. 

On all points he was not so re- 
served. He regularly read Clinton 
his letters from Polly Brown, which 
indeed, were largely taken up with 
Clinton’s case. That good woman 
had much to try her in the position 
in which she was placed, and her 
epistles had generally a desponding 
tone. Her apprehension on Clin- 
ton’s account was great, and her 
troubles with the farm and with 
Hugh Maintland’s affairs were most 
irritating ; but she never failed tp 
enumerate among her afflictions the 


FIVE HUNDBED MAJOBITY. 


187 


lonesomeness slie experienced on ac- 
count of her employer’s absence. 
Not that she wanted him to come 
back until he had got “ the boy ” out 
of trouble, but oh, the establish- 
ment at home did so miss its right- 
ful head ! 

“Polly’s got a peppery tongue 
and a temper,” the old man would 
say, when one of her letters was con- 
cluded, “and many’s the quarrels 
we’ve had ; but, I tell you, there 
might be worse weemen than Polly 
Brown, and worse wives, too, than 
she’d make, provided the man that 
got her knowed how to keep her in 
tow.” 

“Why don’t you marry her, un- 
cle ?” 

“Oh, we differ enough as it is, 
without gittin any nigher together !” 

“ I’m sure you seem to have a very 
high opinion of each other, with all 
your little disagreements.” 

“That’s true,” Martin Swartwout 
would reply, “ but I guess we’d bet- 
ter lit well enough alone. Gittin 
married’s like comin to New York 
to make your fortin — a very doubt- 
ful experiment at best and then 
the old man would go off into a 
quiet chuckle over his own joke. 

But, notwithstanding the brave 
countenance Martin Swartwout man- 
aged to keep up in his nephew’s pre- 
sence, undaunted by his recollection 
of Polly Brown’s peppery tongue, he 
did long to return to his own quiet 
home ; and it was impossible for 
him wholly to avoid an occasional 
reference to the wished-for time when 
he and Clinton would be going back 
there together. 

“But you forget, uncle,” Clinton 


one day responded, “that it is un- 
certain whether I shall ever again 
see my old home. It is no longer 
with me a question of will, but of 
power. I may be hanged.” 

“ Are you not innocent ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, they won’t hang an inno- 
cent man, will they? And besides, 
Postgrave, the lawyer I’ve employed, 
seems to be a mighty smart chap. 
I told him to charge whatever he 
pleased, provided he’d clear you, and 
I’d pay.” 

“Postgrave is a very able man, 
and will do all that can be done. 
But, uncle, you do not seem to un- 
derstand the desperate character of 
the people who are against me.” 

“ Are they not such as you chose 
to associate yourself with ?” 

“Yes ; but I did not know them 
then.” 

“ Bather you did not know your- 
self. All greenhorns think they are 
sharper than the sharpest until they 
are learnt better.” 

“ I accept your correction, uncle,” 
replied Clinton, with a dreary at- 
tempt to smile. “ But, oh !” he con- 
tinued, with a sober enough face, 
“if we only had Tom Sponge now, 
how easily we could defeat their ma- 
chinations ! Poor, poor Tom I” 

“ Why, by all accounts, Tom was 
a silly enough sort of fellow,’’ re- 
sponded Swartwout to this lament- 
ation, “just sharp enough to seize 
a-hold of your coat-tail, and hang 
on.” 

“Tom had his weaknesses,” re- 
joined Clinton, “but I tell you, 
uncle, that if ever there was a brave, 
generous soul, it was Tom Sponge’s. 


188 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


Weak as lie was, lie had penetration 
enough to foresee the danger which 
threatened me, while I had not. Un- 
able to dissuade me from rushing 
into the trap, he asked to take my 
place, and incur the risk which my 
folly invited, and I — I was blind 
enough to let him do so. If there 
ever was true friendship shown, it 
was there. Oh, uncle, I do feel that 
I am a murderer ! My punishment 
is deserved. Although innocent of 
the blood of which I am accused, 
I fear that I have to answer for the 
life of my poor, generous friend.” 

“Now don’t go on that way, 
Clint — don’t, or you’ll have me 
a-blubberin yit. I tell you, you 
will.” 

And the old man, notwithstanding 
his protest against being moved to 
tears, was rubbing his eyes in a 
most suspicious manner, even as he 
spoke. 

Poor, poor Tom Sponge! Not- 
withstanding all Clinton’s anxiety on 
his account, not the slightest trace 
could he get of him, dead or alive. 
There was the sorest spot in his 
heart. It was not merely a selfish 
desire on Clinton’s part to secure an 
important witness, although Tom’s 
evidence seemed indispensable to his 
escape. So far from such being the 
fact, could he have been assured of 
Tory’s safety on the condition of his 
own continued punishment, he would 
cheerfully have borne confinement 
and handcuffs — nay, he would have 
almost welcomed the highest penalty 
with which he was threatened as the 
price to be paid. 

After several vexatious postpone- 
ments — the contested election case 


having, meanwhile, been satisfactori- 
ly decided in Gordon Seacrist’s 
favor- — Clinton’s trial came on. Its 
approach was duly announced by 
Scourge, in the Sunday Plague, in an 
article not merely giving the darkest 
interpretation to the facts of the 
case for the defence, but solemnly 
descanting upon the number of crim- 
inals who were escaping punishment, 
and the necessity that existed for 
stricter enforcement of the law. 

But the public press was not the 
only power that was against the 
prisoner. The crowd of lookers-on 
that filled the court-room was largely 
made up of the former associates 
and admirers of the deceased Har- 
gate — a coarse, villainous throng, in 
no way reserved or delicate in the 
expression of their antipathies — so 
that all the outside influence tended 
to a conviction. Of Clinton’s pre- 
vious flatterers, not one was to be 
seen. 

In due time a jury that was com- 
petent — not by reason of its know- 
ledge, but of its ignorance, of the 
facts of the case — was obtained, and 
the trial began. 

The opening address of the Dis- 
trict Attorney, who, although a man 
rather under middle years, and by 
no means devoid of social qualities, 
was, on account of his assumed 
severity as a public prosecutor, face- 
tiously known as “ Old Grip,” was a 
most effective presentation of the 
case against the accused. In order 
to show the criminal intent — the 
malice or animus alleged to exist — 
much stress was laid upon the fact 
that the prisoner and the deceased 
belonged to different political par- 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


189 


ties ; and, by reason of the contest- 
ed election case, pending .at the 
time of the asserted murder, in 
which one was a principal and the 
other an important witness, might 
be said to be not only political, but 
personal enemies. Here was the be- 
ginning of the deadly motive, and 
on this foundation the un controvert- 
ed circumstances of the case — the 
finding of the prisoner standing over 
the deceased, his bloody hands, the 
pistol in close proximity, and his re- 
sistance to the attempted arrest — 
were so skillfully built up as to seem 
to constitute a position that was im- 
pregnable. 

The District Attorney did not con- 
ceal his personal commiseration for 
the defendant, in touching words 
confessing his regret that duty com- 
pelled him to act as his prosecutor ; 
but skillfully followed up this ac- 
knowledgment with a highly wrought 
picture of the effect upon society, 
should one whose hands were red 
with murder escape the consequences 
of his crime — a picture so vividly 
drawn that, at its conclusion, the 
whole audience, the majority of 
whose members belonged to the 
criminal class, gave way to a virtuous 
burst of applause. 

Much of the evidence for the pro- 
secution embraced uncontested facts, 
and was soon gone over, eliciting 
but little controversy. But it was 
not all of that character. To make 
the case even stronger than it was, 
some of the witnesses undertook to 
establish certain points which would 
have been most damaging for the de- 
fence had they been true, and which 
were plausible enough, if permitted 


to pass without critical scrutinization. 
But Postgrave, Clinton’s lawyer, was 
not the man to be deceived by the 
most crafty misstatement. He 
seemed instinctively to scent the lie, 
and never failed by some ingenious 
turn to bring it to light. In this he 
was by no means unopposed. The 
District Attorney, jealous of his 
rival’s professional success, and natu- 
rally desirous of protecting his wit- 
nesses, interposed all possible obsta- 
cles, and the battle between the law- 
yers waxed hot. At first the utmost 
courtesy was observed ; but, by de- 
grees, the restraints of professional 
decorum were overstepped, and 
warm words passed to and fro be- 
tween the brothers of the Bar. 

“ May it please your Honor,” be- 
gan Postgrave, speaking in a tone of 
quiet, but most telling irony, in re- 
ply to an objection that had been 
made to one of his questions by the 
other side, “the distinguished and 
honorable District Attorney must 
know that he mistakes the rule. His 
long experience in dealing with 
crimes — with which no man is more 
familiar — and the laws governing 
them, ought to have taught him — ” 

“ It has taught me,” exclaimed the 
District Attorney, more excitable 
than his adversary, as with flushed 
face he sprang to his feet, “ to de- 
spise both the insinuations of the 
counsel for the defence, and the ig- 
norance of law he displays.” 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, such lan- 
guage shall not be permitted in 
this court!” sternly interposed the 
judge ; and, by his direction, the 
case proceeded, only to be interrupt- 
ed in a short time by another out- 


190 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


break between the lawyers, of such a 
bitterly personal character as to lead 
the spectators to believe they would 
never speak to each other on friend- 
ly terms again. 

The result of all this was that, 
while none of the essential facts 
against Clinton had been shaken, 
such a cloud of doubt and suspicion 
had been thrown over the case that, 
upon the conclusion of the evidence 
for the prosecution, which concluded 
the day’s proceedings, Postgrave was 
in capital spirits. 

“We have certainly done enough,” 
he said enthusiastically, “to raise a 
reasonable doubt of guilt in the 
minds of the jurors, and that ought 
to acquit. I have hope of the 
result.” 

But Clinton took a very different- 
view of the subject. He was not sa- 
tisfied to escape through a legal 
technicality. He knew he was not 
guilty, and he had all along cherished 
a lingering confidence that some- 
thing would transpire in the course 
of the trial to demonstrate his inno- 
cence. But now, as the evidence 
was virtually concluded, that hope 
was extinguished, and with it all the 
value he set upon life seemed to 
have faded from his mind. 

But there was even then one con- 
solation. An unlooked-for bright- 
ness had momentarily flashed across 
the gloom of his wretched situation, 
leaving a sweet and soothing memo- 
ry behind it. The court had ad- 
journed for the day. The crowd of 
spectators was slowly dispersing, and 
the officers of the law were about to 
lead Glinton back to his cell, when, 
forcing her way through the throng, 


a female suddenly approached him, 
seized his manacled hands in hers, 
whispered a word or two in his ear, 
and then disappeared as quickly as 
she had come. No one had clearly 
seen her face, for her veil was so 
worn as to obscure her features ; but 
Clinton was in no doubt as to who 
his visitor was. He needed no sight 
of her countenance to tell him that 
the voice he had heard and the hand 
he had felt were those of Margaret 
Kortright ; and most acute were 
both the joy and the agony that 
came with that knowledge — joy to 
know that Margaret, of all persons, 
did not believe him guilty, and ago- 
ny to realize that all hope of the 
happiness which such an act of con- 
descension, under other circumstan- 
ces, would have brought with it, was 
now a vain delusion. Through all 
the long night that followed, he was 
the victim of the most opposite emo- 
tions. Forgetting for a little while 
the terrible reality of his situation, 
his thoughts carried him back to the 
time when yet a boy, sitting by Mar- 
garet’s side, he had poured'his dream 
of youthful ambition into her ear, 
and thence, gliding along the current 
of the swelling years, his imagina- 
tion pictured to him the bliss 
that might have been with that 
dream in all of its fullness realized ; 
and then — then the fearful truth 
would rush in upon him ; the great 
prison walls would rise up before his 
eyes, and the horrible possibilities 
that were just beyond, and the tor- 
ture of his soul, as Heaven thus 
faded into the realms of the Lost, 
was inexpressible. 

But while Clinton in his gloomy 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


191 


cell was thus racked with the most 
excruciating fancies, other parties to 
his case were almost as busily em- 
ployed — how, so far as two of them 
were concerned, we will now show. 
Postgrave, as the night wore on, was 
alone in his private office, a most 
comfortable, if not luxurious, apart- 
ment — for, being a bachelor, it was 
his sitting-room as well. With his 
books about him, he was busy solving 
some knotty point of law in the pend- 
ing case, when the door opened, and 
“Old Grip,” the District Attorney, 
stood looking in. 

“ Halloo ! is it you ?” exclaimed 
Postgrave, as he discovered who his 
visitor was. “ Come in, take a seat, 
and make yourself at home” — an 
invitation which the public prose- 
cutor failed not to accept ; and the 
two men, who but a few hours be- 
fore were so pitted against each 
other that the lookers-on supposed 
they would never meet except to en- 
gage in deadly quarrel, were soon 
conversing together in the most 
friendly and agreeable manner. 
They talked freely, too, about the 
trial in which they were employed, 
and ' hearty were the laughs sug- 
gested by its various incidents. 

“That reply of yours this after- 
noon,” said Postgrave with an amia- 
ble grin upon his countenance, “the 
indignation you displayed when I 
intimated that you had not exactly 
told the truth, was equal to any- 
thing of Forrest’s. It was sublime- 
regular thunder.” 

“And do you know, old fellow,” 
rejoined the people’s advocate with 
an equally genial expression, “ that I 
thought some of your insinuations 


that we were resorting to sharp 
practice — not doing exactly the fair 
thing, and so forth — were exceed- 
ingly well done. They were mon- 
strously sly, and I could see that 
they had a big effect on the jury, 
although of course, the judge un- 
derstood them. The hypocrisy of 
the thing was really splendid.” 

But the District Attorney had 
called on business, he said. He had 
a proposition confidentially to sub- 
mit. It concerned Clinton’s case. 
He knew the defendant, had had 
him for a professional opponent on 
several occasions, admired his ability 
and manliness, and, he declared, it 
went sorely against the grain to try 
to hang him ; although the speaker 
had never conducted a more bril- 
liant and effective prosecution. 

Feeling much real sympathy for 
Clinton, and seeing no other proba- 
ble mode of escape, the District At- 
torney’s proposition was, that Clinton 
should, before the trial progressed 
any further, plead guilty to an infe- 
rior grade of crime, and, he thought 
there would be no difficulty in hav- 
ing the plea accepted by the court — 
in fact he felt authorized to say as 
much — and a comparatively light pe- 
nalty imposed — say two or three 
years in the penitentiary, which 
would satisfy public opinion. But, 
if the case went on, and a convic- 
tion of murder took place, which 
was exceedingly probable, it would 
then, lie said, be impossible to do 
anything for him. 

“That’s a matter about which I 
must consult my client,” said Post- 
grave, “ and I will let you know the 
result in the morning. For my part, 


192 


FIVE HUNDBED MAJOBITY. 


I tliink your proposition, as the case 
now stands, a very liberal one.” 

“ Very well,” replied the District 
Attorney, rising, “ I must go. ” 

“Hold on a minute,” rejoined 
Postgrave. “I’ve got a matter on 
which J want your professional opin- 
ion. It’s something under seal.” 

With that the department’s pro- 
prietor proceeded to a closet, and 
took from it a long, black bottle, 
which was closed with a seal. This 
having been broken, and some of 
the contents of the bottle poured 
into a glass, Postgrave extended the 
beverage to his companion with a 
request for his opinion upon it. The 
latter, testing the article, declared 
that it was “ a true bill,” and “ would 
hold water.” 

“ What a pity,” the speaker went 
on with mock solemnity, “ that your 
liquor’s so much better than your 
law.” 

“My law,” rejoined the solemn 
Postgrave, who could weep over the 
most abandoned of wretches, pro- 
vided he was well feed for it, “ is so 
good that it has saved the life of 
many a fellow creature.” 

“ Oh, I know it’s got a deal to an- 
swer for,” responded the official. 
“Many’s the man it’s turned loose 
on society that ought to have gone 
to the gallows.” 

“ And how much worse is that, 
pray, than trying to hang a poor 
fellow for doing society a real service 
in ridding it of such a creature as 
Hargate?” And Postgrave smiled 
complacently in view of the hit he 
had made* 

“ I admit the service,” responded 
the public prosecutor, “and your 


' point would be an excellent one, 
were it not for the fact that I am 
here now for the express purpose of 
trying to save the man who did it 
from hanging. I offer to open the 
door, and point the way, and then, if 
he doesn’t go, it’s not my fault if I 
do hang him. That’s business, you 
know.” 

“ Oh, yes, that’s business, I’m 
aware,” answered Postgrave, drily. 
“ And, by the way, did you ever hear 
that song of mine on that very sub- 
ject ? I wrote it while listening, or 
rather, pretending to listen, to one 
of your speeches intended to convict 
one of my innocent clients of mur- 
der, or something about as Bad.” 

“And in reply to which, I’ve no 
doubt, you shed a bushel of tears, 
when you knew the fellow deserved 
a dozen convictions. However, let 
us have the song. I always believed 
the world lost a magnificent artist — 
in the burnt-cork line — when you 
decided to turn lawyer.” 

“Well, fill up your glass, for that’s 
absolutely necessary to the due ap- 
preciation of my music.” 

And Postgrave, having moistened 
his own throat, began : 

SONG. 

It’s all in the way of business, you know ; 
You know. 

The wrong is made right ; the black is 
made white ; 

The high is replaced by the low. 

Is there one to complain of such practice ? 
how vain ! 

It’s all in the way of business, you know. 

It’s all in the way of business, you know ; 
You know. 

What is yours I make mine — you may 
grumble and whine — 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


193 


If the law of the land wills it so ; 

For who cares a pin for so trifling a sin ? 

It's all in the way of business, you know. 

It’s all in the way. of business, you know ; 
You know. 

For that makes it right to say a thing ’s 
white, 

When its shade is the hue of the crow. 
Because it’s a lie, would you cavil ? Oh, fie ! 
It’s all in the way of business, you know, 

It’s all in the way of business, you know ; 
You know. 

Though the means be a trick that’s worthy 
Old Nick, 

Just come from the regions below, 

In the end we may see the jus civile. 

It’s all in the way of business, you know. 

It’s all in the way of business, you know ; 
You know. 

Then here’s to the brim, in homage of him 
Who per se has the verdict to show. 

All authorities say that his cause is O. K. 
It’s all in the way of business, you know. 

“Bravo ! bravo!” shouted the Dis- 
trict Attorney, at the conclusion of the 
song, in the closing refrain of which 
he had participated. “ That’s capi- 
tal, on my word. You’re a poet 
made, not born, as true as I’m the 
people’s representative.” 

The potations in which the peo- 
ple’s representative had been indulg- 
ing, had by this time somewhat dis- 
turbed the equilibrium of his ideas, 
and rendered his compliments of 
a more than ordinarily doubtful 
character. 

“ If it wasn’t court time,” he rat- 
tled on, “ I’d like to stay and make 
a night of it with you. You’re a jol- 
ly old Gravestone — you are. I like 
your singing ; and I like your con- 
versation ; and I like your liquor 
better than either. But the fact is, 
I’m in a murder trial, and the man’s 


got to be hung — that is — that is — 
provided — oh, blast it, you know 
what I mean better than I do.” 

And, after a little more similar in- 
coherence, he succeeded in making 
his way out of the room, leaving 
Postgrave to his solitary medita- 
tions. 

The following morning Postgrave 
made his way to the prison to confer 
with Clinton on the subject of the 
District Attorney’s proposition. He 
found Martin Swartwout already 
with his nephew, so that he became 
a party to the conference that fol- 
lowed. “ I feel it to be my duty,” 
said Postgrave to Clinton, after he 
had stated the proposal with which 
he was charged, “ to give you my 
candid opinion on the case as it 
stands. We have certainly shaken 
the opposition terribly — terribly ; 
but still, upon the evidence now pre- 
sented, I am forced to admit the 
probability of a conviction — provided 
the overture which comes from the 
other side is rejected. Nevertheless, 
it is for you to decide what is to be 
done about it.” 

“What is to be done about it,” re- 
sponded Clinton, instantly and with 
undisguised indignation. “ Reject 
it, of course. To plead guilty at all, 
is a confession of crime. I tell you 
I am innocent — wholly innocent. If 
I am to be convicted of anything, 
I want to be hung. I don’t want to 
live after it.” 

“ That’s the talk,” exclaimed Swart- 
wout, who had been intently watch- 
ing his nephew’s countenance during 
the foregoing conversation. “ That’s 
the talk of an innocent man. Oh, 
nobody need now say yer guilty. 


194 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


Stick to it, Clint. Stick to it, Clint. 
We’ll beat ’em yit. We’ll beat ’em 

yit.” 

And with that the old man, from 
dancing about his nephew with un- 
controllable joy, threw his arms 
about his neck, and closed with a 
most ardent embrace. 

“ And what says your man ? ” 
asked the District Attorney of Post- 
grave, in a whisper, as they met in 
the court-room. 

“Neck or nothing.” 

“ Then I’ll have to hang him — if I 
can — that’s all.” 

The defence opened in a very quiet 
way. Postgrave addressed a few 
earnest words to the jury ; but, con- 
trary to expectation, made no appeal 
on account of his client’s youth and 
previous character. Then, handing 
up the names of a few citizens who 
had known Clinton, he asked them 
to be called as witnesses. 

The District Attorney seeing, as 
he thought, a chance for a strategic 
advantage, and now ready to avail 
himself of all the tactics of his pro- 
fession, at once arose, and remarked 
that, if the object was to establish 
character, the evidence was wholly 
unnecessary, as he was prepared to 
admit that the reputation of the de- 
fendant, previous to the offence with 
which he was charged, was unim- 
peachable. And with that the public 
prosecutor took his seat, directing 
at his adversary a glance of conscious 
triumph, satisfied that he had taken 
away from the other side pretty 
much all its capital in the display of 
a number of respectable witnesses, 
while he had admitted nothing 


which it would not otherwise have 
had. 

Whatever may have been Post- 
grave’s real feeling in the matter, he 
was too old and wary a practitioner 
to exhibit anything like disappoint- 
ment. On the contrary, he cour- 
teously thanked the District Attor- 
ney for his liberality, and, without a 
moment’s hesitation, accepted his 
proposition. 

“We will now proceed to another 
branch of the defence,” he remarked. 
“ I would ask for the calling of Tho- 
mas Sponge.” 

At the mention of that name Clin- 
ton gave a start, and it was as much 
as Martin Swartwout on one side, 
and Postgrave on the other, could 
do to hold him in his seat, as the 
shadow of a man, with scarcely 
enough resemblance to the original 
Tom Sponge to prove his identity, 
rising up from an obscure point in 
the rear of the room, came tottering 
forward towards the witness-stand. 
It was clear enough that he had 
gone through some terrible expe- 
rience. Without once glancing to- 
wards the prisoner and his former 
employer, Tom took the chair that 
was provided for him, kissed the 
book, and calmly awaited the exami- 
nation to begin. After the usual 
preliminary questions, came the in- 
quiry : 

“What do you know of the kill- 
ing of the deceased, Dennis Har- 
gate ?” 

“I shot him with Clinton Maint- 
land’s pistol,” answered Tom, with- 
out so much as the quiver of a mus- 
cle. 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


Then, amid the almost breathless 
attention of the whole assembly, he 
proceeded to tell the whole story ; 
how Clinton was bewitched by the 
anonymous note ; how they went 
down to the ferry in pursuit of the 
veiled figure ; how, following the de- 
coy out upon the pier, he had sud- 
denly found himself surrounded by 
threatening men, and, recognizing 
Hargate as the leader, had drawn 
his pistol and fired ; how, struck 
down by a heavy blow, he soon 
found himself struggling in the wa- 
ter ; how unconsciousness came on, 
and he knew nothing more until he 
found himself lying upon the floor 
of a miserable, underground den — 
the clothes he was wearing all 
spoiled, he added, with a pathos 
quite characteristic — and discovered 
that a rough, fierce-looking man, 
who, he afterwards learned, having, 
on some predatory intent, been hid- 
ing under the pier in his boat, had 
rescued and brought him ashore, 
and then, under the impression that 
he was dead, was quietly going 
through his pockets ; and how, fever 
setting in, he knew nothing more un- 
til he awoke to find himself in the 
same wretched room, but in the care 
of Martin Swartwout, to whose nurs- 
ing he owed his life and his ability 
that day to save the life of one 
who ” 

But at this point, Tom incau- 
tiously glancing towards Clinton 
Maintland, the eyes of the two men 
met, and, simultaneously springing 
to their feet, with a cry of joy they 
rushed into each other’s arms. 

Tom was in no condition that day 
to give further testimony. His 


196 

strength was already overtaxed, and 
it was necessary to have him at once 
borne from the room and to a quiet 
place. 

“ Kobert Hazen will take the 
stand,” said Postgrave in his firm, 
professional tone, when the excite- 
ment attending the incident just re- 
lated, had subsided ; and a coarsely- 
dressed and somewhat haggard man, 
rising up in the midst of the specta- 
tors, walked quietly towards the wit- 
ness-stand. At a glance Clinton re- 
cognized that face, and the thought 
rushed in upon him that the man 
whose life he had once saved, was 
there that day to help save his. 
Casting one assuring and grateful 
look at Clinton, Hazen calmly took 
his place and awaited the examina- 
tion to begin. 

“ Stop one moment,” said the Dis- 
trict Attorney, to whom, in the 
meanwhile, several notes had been 
mysteriously delivered ; for the 
events just related had produced no 
little commotion in the court-room. 
“ May I ask you what you expect to 
prove by this witness?” turning to 
Postgrave. 

“This witness,” answered Post- 
grave, “ is the person who, being un- 
der the pier at the time of the as- 
sault and killing, not only saved the 
life of the last witness who testified, 
but saw and recognized the men 
who were associated with the de- 
ceased in the attack upon him.” 

“ May it please the court,” said the 
District Attorney, who had, mean- 
while, kept his feet, “as I under- 
stand my official duty, it is to prose- 
cute supposed criminals — not inno- 
cent men. As soon as I become 


196 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


persuaded that a party accused of 
crime is blameless, I am no longer 
justified in laboring for his convic- 
tion. That point has clearly been 
reached in this case. The defendant 
is most amply vindicated. It, there- 
fore, affords me the highest gratifica- 
tion, not merely to announce that I 
can no longer consistently prosecute 
this case against him, but to ask in 
his behalf a verdict of acquittal. ” 

With the conclusion of these words 
the speaker cast a glance of pe- 
culiar meaning at the opposing coun- 
sel. 

“ Gentlemen of the jury,” said the 
judge, “ you have heard the remarks 
of the people’s representative, with 
the justice of which I fully agree. 
You will, therefore, consult together, 
and return your verdict.” 

Without even speaking to each 
other, the twelve men in the jury- 
box rose up and, with one voice, an- 
nounced a verdict of “Not Guilty.” 

All this was like a dream to Clin- 
ton. Since the wonderful turn in 
his case, he was scarcely conscious of 
what was going on. The words 
“Not-Guilty,” sounded in his ears, 
but he scarcely realized their joyful 
sinification. It was not until he be- 
came aware that Martin Swartwout, 
with a voice only half audible for 
his sobs, was begging his forgiveness 
for having concealed so much, “ for 
fear something might go wrong ;” 
and that the tears were running 
down Postgrave’s sober cheeks ; and 
that friends who had long been ab- 
sent, but who had now suddenly and 
mysteriously reappeared, were press- 
ing about him to grasp his hand ; 
and that the crowd of lookers-on, 


who had before been regarding him 
with unfriendly eyes, were now shout- 
ing and cheering in a perfect frenzy 
of joy over his deliverance, that he' 
became thoroughly alive to the fact 
that he was once more a free man. 
Even then he received the congratu- 
lations that were showered upon him 
with a languor amounting almost to 
indifference. He seemed to be look- 
ing about him for something that 
was not visible, until, a messenger 
approaching and speaking some- 
thing in his ear, he started for the 
door, forcing his way through the 
surging crowd with such rapidity 
and energy that Martin Swartwout 
wfith difficulty could keep up, and 
soon was in the street. There a 
carriage was in waiting, and in it 
was to be seen the radiant, but 
tearful, face of Margaret Kortright. 
No sooner had Clinton and his un- 
cle entered it, than the little party it 
contained was rapidly ■whirled away. 

Great was the popularity Clinton 
once more enjoyed. Compliments 
and honors from all sides were 
poured in upon him, the ovation 
finally culminating in the tender of a 
public dinner to be given by his 
many friends and admirers. The 
offer was declined ; partly because 
Clinton had tasted to his satisfaction 
the cup of popular flattery, and 
knew how uncertain was its flavor ; 
and partly because of another en- 
gagement. 

A few days after the events just 
recorded, there was a little party 
gathered at the church to which the 
reader was taken in the • chapter im- 
mediately preceding. Once more 
the clergyman took his place at the 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


197 


altar ; but this time there was no 
interruption to the joyful ceremony. 
The young people united in the holy 
bonds were in N travelling dress, and, 
proceeding thence, were soon on 
their way to the scenes of their 
earliest hopes and dreams in Willow- 
ford. 


CHAPTER XXL 

CONCLUSION. 

With the events that have been 
narrated, closes that chain of cir- 
cumstances which bound the for- 
tunes of the parties with whom the 
reader has been made familiar in a 
connected story. Thenceforward 
their lives were to run mostly in se- 
parate channels, and it only remains 
to trace them far enough to satisfy a 
natural curiosity. 

By the incidents that have been 
described, Barton Seacrist, within 
the field of his political operations, 
was left in undisputed mastery of the 
situation. No one any longer pre- 
tended to question his power. All 
the legislation he required was grant- 
ed without a murmur ; his schemes 
for personal and political aggrandize- 
ment were ratified with scarcely a 
show of opposition ; his friends — and 
few from that time but claimed to be 
his friends — were put in all positions 
of authority ; and the station to 
which he had so long been aspiring 
— the Chief Magistracy of the great 
city of which he was a resident — was 
at last seemingly safe within his reach. 
The election that was to lift him to it 
was near at hand, and all arrange- 


ments to make success absolutely 
certain, had been adopted with his 
accustomed foresight and accuracy. 

Once more, as a preliminary to the 
coming contest, a dinner was given, 
at which nearly all his old supporters, 
with whom the reader has become 
acquainted, were present. Wind- 
sham soared and crackled as usual ; 
Alderman Skipp talked horse with 
uncommon felicity; Senator Bloom 
sang a new song to the latest minstrel 
accompaniment, and, as the air was 
that of “ Love among the roses,” it 
gave Windsham one of his best op- 
portunities to pun on the singer’s 
name ; Grulls drank liquor of his 
own supplying, and in no illiberal 
quantity ; Scourge, of the Sunday 
Plague , was made happy by the 
privilege of indulging a few ill- 
natured remarks of so general a 
character that nobody took offence ; 
Abel Cummager, who had Kate 
Seacrist for his companion, glowered 
upon everybody with his habitual 
taciturnity and watchfulness, al- 
though no longer an object of dis- 
trust, because the Mohicans, as a 
political organization, had been dis- 
banded ; Gordon Seacrist responded 
to a toast in honor of the Senate 
and Assembly of the State, in which 
he had something to say about the 
necessity for a free and uncorrupted 
ballot ; the men of padding padded 
themselves as they had done many a 
time before ; Browbeat and Stri- 
ker both made speeches, which 
were chiefly compliments to each 
other — but the grand event was 
when Barton Seacrist, having been 
toasted as the next Mayor of New 
York, and duly panegyrized by 


198 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


*Windsham in one of his most bril- 
liant efforts, disclaimed all personal 
ambition and urged his desire to 
return to the shades of private life 
in such touching terms that the whole 
Assembly was dissolved in tears — 
presenting a scene of which the pub- 
lic had the benefit in the next morn- 
ing’s papers. 

The next day Barton Seacrist did 
not appear at the usual hour. In 
this there was nothing to occasion 
surprise ; but Kate, with a daughter’s 
solicitude, nevertheless visited his 
bedside, and anxiously inquired after 
his health. Here was nothing the 
matter ; he was simply exhausted — 
but, as time went by and he grew no 
stronger, Kate became alarmed. 
The family physician was sent for, 
and, upon that authority appearing, 
he gravely shook his head. There 
was not much the matter, it was 
true. There was no disease. But 
the man was worn out. The ma- 
chinery of his system had at last 
broken down under continual over- 
work. His physical vitality was 
, gone. He did not have the bodily 
strength to rally. 

Barton Seacrist was quick to read 
the language of distrust in his attend- 
ant’s eyes. He demanded to know at 
once the worst. It was frankly given. 
The doctor did not believe he would 
ever be up again. 

“ Not be up again ?” exclaimed the 
old leader with a shrill, terrible voice, 
as, with the lingering remnant of his 
once great nervous strength, he raised 
himself up in bed and looked the phy- 
sician in the face out of his deep, 
clear eyes with an expression in which 


indignation, fear and pleading were 
all combined. 

“ Not be up again, doctor ? I tell 
you I must be up. The election’s just 
at hand, and they’ll cheat me, if I’m 
not up to watch them. They’re 
scoundrels, hypocrites, liars, every 
one of them. They wish I was dead — 
dead that they might get my power. 
O doctor, I must be up ! Everything 
— everything’s now at stake — all I 
have labored, and plotted, and lived 
for. And now it’s mine — mine 
— mine, if I’m only up. Doctor, doc- 
tor, you must not let me die now. 
Don’t let me die now. I’ll give you 
half — yes all — all — all ” 

The voice had died away to a hol- 
low whisper, and then it ceased al- 
together; and the white, helpless old 
man, his lips still faintly moving, 
fell back utterly undone upon his 
pillow. 

He never rose up again. Delirium 
set in, and he began to talk wildly in 
his intervals of dreamy conscious- 
ness. He thought he was in the 
midst of a close and terribly exciting 
election. Once more he was rallying 
his friends about him, and directing 
their movements against the common 
enemy. “ Don’t be afraid ! don’t be 
afraid !” he would say, encouraging- 
ly. “The day will yet be ours — 
never fear. The Mohicans will come 
to our help.” And then he would 
swoon away, only to rally again and 
again ; but still that terrible election 
was undecided. Fiercer and closer 
grew the contest, and wilder became 
the sick man’s agitation, growing ai 
last to a perfect frenzy as he discov- 
ered that fiends — not men — made up 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


199 


the opposition. “ They are devils — 
devils — devils,” he would shout. 
“ See, they are gathering all about 
us. Look hdw black their wings 
are. Oh, they will have the polls! 
they will have the polls !” Then he 
would call upon his friends and fol- 
lowers, piteously exhorting them to 
stand by him. “We must drive 
them back ! Oh, we must drive 
them back! To work, men — every 
one of you to work! Now’s the 
time ; now’*s the time. Let them 
howl; let them howl. We must have 
the day — we must — must — must — ” 

At last the contest seemed to be 
over, and the old man was listening 
to the returns as they came in from 
the different parts of the field. His 
eye kindled with its old fire, and he 
would feebly clap his hands together, 
laughing with a thin and quavering 
exultation, as the reports confirmed 
his most sanguine expectations. All 
was going well, and higher, higher 
rose the thrill of his mad, tremulous 
ecstasy, when suddenly there came a 
change. His features stiffened, and 
his hands trembled and clutched, 
and his whole expression became 
fierce and wild, and oh, so desperate, 
as, with almost superhuman power, 
after seeming for a moment to be in- 
tently listening to something, he ex- 
claimed, “Five hundred majority? 
Five hundred majority for him, did 
you say ? It cannot — it cannot — oh, 
it is! — it is! Horror! Madness! 
We are beaten — beaten — beaten.” 

The wail of a spirit lost could not 
have been more terrible than the 
last, piteous cry that went out from 
lips that were already cold and white 
as marble. The great Sachem who, 


in the field of his fame and his tri- 
umphs, had found no equal, was 
at last beaten — beaten by Death. 

His political friends and followers 
— the men who had shared his pa- 
tronage and his power — gathering 
together, passed a cold and formal 
resolution of respect for his memory, 
and regret for his loss ; and then, in 
the wrangle and scramble for the au- 
thority that had been his, forgot that 
such a man had ever lived. 

How the inheritor of the dead Sa- 
chem’s name and fortune, his son 
Gordon, has since lived and pros- 
pered, is best shown by a conversation 
to which he was not long ago a party; 
he, in the meanwhile, having, through 
the judgment of an accommodating 
court, obtained a divorce, on the 
ground of desertion by her, from his 
quondam wife, Alice Plain. His 
companion, on the occasion referred 
to, was a bright young girl. 

“Now, Gordon, you are perfectly 
certain that you have no other wife ? 
It would be so awful to have some- 
body turn up unexpectedly to dispute 
one’s right.” 

“No, Clara, darling, I never was 
married but once, and then I didn’t 
mean to be.” 

“ But you do mean it now ?” 

“ My soul’s jewel, I cannot possibly 
live without you.” 

“ Oh, dear ! what shall Ido? I 
don’t want you to die ; but I do so 
wish that father knew something 
about it. It doesn’t seem right at 
all.” 

“ It’s no use, Clara. Your father 
told me never to darken his door 
again when — when I came so near 
being entrapped by that designing 


200 


FIVE HUNDRED MAJORITY. 


cousin of yours. When you’re my 
wife, however, he’ll knock under — 
never fear.” 

Gordon was right. The paternal 
Bafford did “ knock under,” when he 
found that his daughter was really 
Mrs. Seacrist ; and so far the felicity 
of the wedded pair has been undis- 
turbed by the visage of any rival 
claimant. 

As for Gordon’s earlier wife, she 
was by no means inconsolable upon 
being informed of his second mar- 
riage ; as she had already promised 
to become Mrs. Tom Sponge. 

But there was still another wed- 
ding to be recorded. When Martin 
Swartwout got home from the city, 
he was so rejoiced at meeting his old 
housekeeper that he just took her in 
his arms and deliberately kissed her 
then and there ; and Polly never 
said one word in opposition. An 
occurrence so unprecedented was 
not to go for nothing. The Rev. Mr. 
Goodbody was soon sent for, and the 
two were made one. 

As for the second Mrs. Abel Cum- 
mager, nee Kate Seacrist, no lady in 
New York rides in a finer carriage, 
nor is said to be more liberal in the 
use of vinaigre de rouge. 

Tom Sponge remained for a short 
time in New York after Clinton, who 
found that the charge of his wife’s 
ample possessions in Willowford re- 
quired his presence there — and, in- 
deed, he had no desire to return to 
the city — had left it ; but he soon de- 
clared that he could not possibly 


reconcile himself to live in any com- 
munity governed by Tammany Hall. 
So Clinton kindly secured him a 
situation in his own neighborhood, 
and how well he is prospering there, 
is shown by the fact that no one is 
so celebrated for the brilliancy of 
his neck-ties in all the country 
round. . 

As for Hugh Maintland, he is back 
on the old farm, for which he now 
holds an unencumbered title. In 
some respects, however, he is a great- 
ly altered man. He now rarely 
talks politics, holding that there may 
be good men as well as bad men, in 
ah parties ; and that it is not at all 
necessary for any man to. be a pa- 
triot, that he should be a partisan. 
He does sometimes visit the store of 
Perry Doubleman, who is still post- 
master of Willowford, and as much 
of a trimmer as ever, but he is no 
longer a member of the political 
firm of Grupp, Phips & Co. 

Clinton Maintland, since his return 
to the scenes of his boyhood, has 
been either too closely employed in 
the management of his own private 
business, or too much engrossed 
with the mingled pleasures and cares 
of a growing family, to take an 
active part in public affairs. So 
high is the estimate, however, in 
which he is held by his neighbors 
and fellow-citizens, that he has re- 
cently been chosen to represent his 
district in the legislature of the 
State — this time by far more than 
Pive Hundred Majority. 


* 


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